Chapter 1 - The Black Marble Table
My forehead rested against the cold dark marble, the hard surface biting into my skin even through the dull numbness of utter exhaustion. My fingers were still curled around the edge of a silver tray, though my arms felt like lead, heavy and entirely detached from my will. In the high-end luxury dining room, the crystal chandelier overhead cast a fractured, prismatic glow across the gold-trimmed black wainscoting, illuminating the suffocating stillness of three in the morning. I had only meant to close my eyes for a single second, just to quiet the steady, pounding drumbeat behind my temples, before the weight of my uniform—the crisp white collar and cuffs that felt more like a vise than proper attire—dragged me under.
"Sir, this is the third time this week she's fallen asleep while working."
The voice cut through the heavy silence, low and sharp. Footsteps shifted on the parquet floor behind me. I tried to pull my limbs together, to force my spine to straighten and my eyelids to lift, but my body refused the command. Muscle memory and sheer panic warred inside me, yet my muscles simply wouldn't fire.
Then a second voice spoke, rich, resonant, and entirely unyielding, halting the approaching strides of the men behind me.
"Nobody touches her. I want to know why she can't stay awake first."
That was Marcus. I knew the cadence of his voice, the measured, athletic gravity of a man accustomed to being obeyed without raising his volume. A shadow fell over the table, blocking the harsh amber-toned light of the chandelier. I felt the heat of his presence close by, though he maintained a strict boundary, his tailored black suit with its subtle gold piping and crisp white shirt shifting slightly as he leaned closer to inspect the scene.
"Look at this," one of the bodyguards muttered, his hand rustling against paper just inches from my cheek.
A heavy, deliberate finger tapped against the dark wood, pointing directly at a staff schedule document left near my elbow. The yellow highlighted shift times glared against the white paper.
"Three nights in a row," Marcus murmured, his deep voice carrying a sudden, dangerous drop in temperature. "She's been working for almost 36 hours."
I wanted to speak, to mumble some excuse about covering the evening rotation or the sudden shortage of floor staff, but my tongue felt swollen and dry. My breath hitched softly against the marble.
The rustling of paper stopped. A moment later, the electronic chime of the numeric code keypad mounted beside the dining room's service arch echoed sharply in the quiet room. Keys clicked in rapid succession—a sequence of numbers I recognized all too well, though I hadn't punched them in myself.
Marcus's breath hitched, followed by a heavy exhale. His eyes, when I finally managed to squint upward through my lashes, were narrowed intensely with realization as he stared down at the glowing digital readout of the keypad.
"The orders were approved with Miss Olivia's code."
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, broken only by the low, tense ambient string drone of the estate's security system humming through the vents.
"Check the access logs again," Marcus ordered, his tone flat, brooking no argument. "Olivia's been in New York for a week. Who's using her code?"
May you like
I lay motionless, the question hanging in the air like a physical weight, pressing me deeper into the dark marble table while the two bodyguards shifted restlessly at Marcus's flanks, waiting for a directive that would tear open a secret I had been trying desperately to survive.
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