Chapter 1 - Shadows and Scars
The attic room was cold, the chill seeping through the cracked floorboards as if winter itself lived in the foundations of the mansion. I sat on the edge of the narrow cot, my knees drawn to my chest, staring at the faint strip of moonlight cutting through the small, dirty window. My hands were still trembling, not just from the biting air, but from the lingering memory of his gaze.
Gabriel Vance.
Even without anyone speaking his name aloud, I had known who he was the second he stepped into the light of the kitchen. The youngest son of the Vance family, a man whose reputation preceded him like a dark shadow over the entire city. The papers called them real estate moguls and venture capitalists, but the streets knew better. The Vances owned the docks, the shipping routes, the silent agreements that kept the police looking the other way. They were the underground authority, and Gabriel was their enforce—the brilliant, ruthless mind behind their expanding empire.
I looked down at my hands. The soap suds had dried, leaving my skin tight and chapped, but beneath the long sleeves of my oversized sweater hidden away from the world lay the true reason I wore high collars even in the heat. Bruises. Dark, angry purples and fading yellow-greens wrapped around my upper arms, the physical reminders of Marcus, the man I had spent the last two years running from.
Marcus wasn't a mafia boss; he was something far more unpredictable—a desperate gambler with debts to dangerous men and a violent temper that flared whenever his luck ran dry. When I had finally gathered the courage to walk away, he had left me with a broken rib, a bruised spine, and a promise: “I will find you, Emma. And when I do, nobody is going to save you.”
I pulled my knees tighter against my chest, shivering. I thought coming to work in this fortress-like mansion would keep me invisible. I thought hiding among thirty other staff members would make me a ghost. But Gabriel Vance had looked right through me in a matter of seconds.
The next morning came far too quickly. The heavy iron bell in the staff quarters rang at 5:30 AM, signaling the start of the daily routine. I dragged myself out of bed, washed my face with ice-cold water, and carefully pulled on my maid’s uniform—a long-sleeved dark gray dress with a crisp white apron. I paused in front of the small mirror, ensuring the collar sat high enough to cover the mark at the base of my neck where Marcus had grabbed me three weeks ago when he cornered me outside my old factory job.
When I reached the main kitchen, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Mrs. Chen stood near the large center island, her arms crossed, her sharp eyes scanning every servant who walked through the door. When her gaze landed on me, her expression hardened.
"Emma," she said, her voice dropping to a low, icy tone that caused the surrounding maids to scatter. "A word."
I stepped forward, my stomach twisting into a tight knot. "Yes, Mrs. Chen?"
"You were seen in the main house last night," she said, stepping closer so only I could hear. "Past hours. And you were speaking to Master Gabriel."
"I was finishing the dishes, Mrs. Chen. You said the kitchen needed to be clean before dawn—"
"I know what I said!" she hissed, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the wooden counter. "My daughter was assigned to the night shift. You took her place without my authorization."
"She was ill," I said softly, keeping my voice calm despite the fear fluttering in my chest. "She asked for help."
"She is my daughter, and her duties are her own!" Mrs. Chen’s eyes narrowed with a venomous intensity. "Do not think for a second that you can gain favor in this house by fluttering your eyes at Master Gabriel. He is not a man you play games with, girl. He destroys things far stronger than you. If I see you near his quarters again, I won't just fire you—I will make sure you never find work in this city again."
"Understood," I whispered, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor.
"Get to work," she spat. "The West Wing needs deep cleaning today. All of it. By yourself."
The West Wing was the private residence of Gabriel and his elder brother, Julian. It was the largest section of the mansion, filled with intricate mahogany furniture, heavy velvet drapes, and priceless antiques. Cleaning it alone usually took three people an entire day.
I grabbed my cleaning cart and pushed it down the long, carpeted corridors toward the West Wing. The silence of the house felt heavy, almost suffocating. As I wiped down the high wooden wainscoting and polished the antique brass sconces, my body burned with fatigue. My back throbbed from the old injury Marcus had caused, and every stretch of my arm sent a sharp spike of pain through my side.
By 2:00 PM, I was working on the grand library in the heart of the West Wing. It was a massive two-story room lined with thousands of leather-bound books, featuring a spiraling iron staircase and a massive grand fireplace. I stood on a small wooden stepladder, reaching up to dust the top shelves of an alcove near the back wall.
My arm was trembling. The exhaustion, combined with the lack of food—Mrs. Chen had purposefully omitted my name from the breakfast roll—was catching up to me. My vision blurred for a fraction of a second, a wave of dizziness washing over me.
I reached out to steady myself on the bookshelf, but my sleeve caught on the edge of a heavy bronze bookend. The fabric tugged backward, pulling my sleeve down to my shoulder.
At that exact moment, a sharp footstep echoed near the library entrance.
Startled, I lost my balance. My foot slipped off the narrow rung of the stepladder. I gasped, bracing myself for the hard impact with the marble floor, but before I hit the ground, two powerful arms caught me mid-air.
The impact drove the air out of my lungs, but the floor never came. Instead, I was held flush against a firm, solid chest. The faint scent of cedarwood, expensive tobacco, and rain enveloped me instantly.
"Careful," a cool, smooth voice drawled directly above my ear.
My eyes snapped open. I was cradled in Gabriel Vance's arms. He held me effortlessly, his dark eyes looking down into mine with an unreadable intensity. But as I instinctively tried to pull away, my high sleeve, snagged on the stepladder during the fall, ripped with a soft tear, exposing my entire left arm and shoulder.
The air in the room seemed to plummet to absolute zero.
Gabriel didn't move. He didn't drop me. His gaze shifted from my face down to my bare arm.
There, exposed under the warm afternoon light filtering through the stained-glass windows, was a horrific tapestry of injury. Deep purple finger-shaped bruises wrapped around my bicep, overlapping with older, yellowing contusions. Near my shoulder, the distinct shape of a heavy belt buckle was stamped into my pale skin—a parting gift from Marcus.
Gabriel's breath hitched subtly. The lazy, dangerous amusement that usually lingered around his lips vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, terrifying stillness.
"What is that?" he asked. His voice wasn't loud, but the depth of its tone vibrated straight through my spine.
"It's nothing," I panicked, scrambling to pull my arm free, trying frantically to pull the ruined fabric back over my skin. "I—I fell. I'm clumsy, sir. Please, put me down."
He didn't put me down. Instead, he carried me over to the large velvet sofa near the fireplace and set me down gently, as if I were made of fragile glass. Before I could stand, he knelt in front of me, his tall frame blocking out the rest of the room.
"Look at me, Emma," he commanded softly.
I shook my head, my lower lip trembling, tears blurring my vision. "Please, Mr. Vance. I'm fine. I just need to finish my work. Mrs. Chen will—"
"Mrs. Chen doesn't mean a damn thing right now," he cut in, his dark eyes locking onto mine with terrifying focus. He reached out, his long fingers surprisingly gentle as he caught my wrist. He didn't squeeze; he merely held it, elevating my arm into the light. His thumb brushed just millimeters away from a dark purple mark, his touch so light it felt like a feather.
"Those aren't from a fall," Gabriel said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "A fall leaves scrapes and uneven blunt force trauma. These are handprints. Someone held you down." He traced the outline of the belt mark with his eyes, a muscle in his jaw ticking violently. "And this was done with a weapon."
"Please," I whispered, a tear finally escaping and slipping down my cheek. "Don't ask me. If I talk about it... if he finds out..."
Gabriel leaned in closer, his dark hair falling over his forehead, masking the predatory fire in his eyes. "Who did this to you?"
"It doesn't matter," I sobbed, closing my eyes. "He's in the past. I ran away. I'm safe here."
"You're hiding here," Gabriel corrected, his voice dropping into a harsh, dangerous whisper. "There is a difference. And nobody gets to inflict this kind of damage on someone under my roof and walk away breathed-in."
He stood up smoothly, his shadow falling over me. He reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulled out a silk handkerchief, and handed it to me.
"Fix your sleeve," he said quietly. "And come with me."
May you like
"Where?" I asked, wiping my eyes nervously.
Gabriel turned his back to me, straightening his cuffs, but the sheer aura of lethal authority radiating from him made the air feel thin. "To my office. We are going to have a long conversation about who feels entitled to put their hands on what belongs in my house."
