Chapter 5 - Daybreak in the Quarters
The weight behind my eyes felt like wet lead. Every breath required an explicit calculation, drawing cold air through a throat dry from hours of face-down pressure against the dark marble table. When I tried to push myself up, my arms shook so violently that my elbows buckled, threatening to send me straight back down onto the parquet floor.
A large, warm hand caught me by the upper forearm before I hit the ground. The grip was firm, perfectly measured to steady my weight without pulling or jarring my exhausted frame.
"Easy," Marcus said. His voice was lower now, stripped of the professional distance he'd maintained in the dining room and the security office. He stood over me in his tailored black suit, his gold-piped cuffs catching the weak gray light seeping through the high draperies of the estate's central hallway. "Don't try to stand on your own yet."
"I have to finish checking the morning delivery logs," I murmured, my voice cracking on the consonants. My fingers curled instinctively against the wool of my maid uniform, gripping the white collar at my throat out of pure habit. "If Vance comes down and sees the pantry unsecured—"
"Vance isn't coming down anywhere near this wing for the next twelve hours," Marcus interrupted, his dark eyes fixed on my face with an intensity that made me look away. "And you aren't touching a ledger, a delivery slip, or a dusting cloth until tomorrow afternoon."
"I can't go to my quarters," I whispered, the fear finally breaking through the heavy fog of exhaustion. My room was down in the lower basement hall, past the laundry chutes where the supervisors dropped their clipboard memos and where every shift change was tracked by the estate's automated timeclocks. If Vance or anyone working for him realized I was awake and talking about the thirty-six-hour schedules, they would lock me out of the system entirely, or worse, file a termination for abandonment of post before I could prove what had been done to my name. "They'll see me. They know which room is mine."
Marcus didn't argue or brush the fear aside. He simply held my gaze for a long, quiet second, processing the terror behind my words with the same cold clarity he'd used to examine the forged shift codes on the keypad.
"You're not going to the basement," he said quietly. He slipped his arm under my shoulders, lifting me effortlessly to my feet despite my resistance. "There's an empty guest suite on the third floor. West wing. It hasn't been used since Miss Olivia left for New York, and the internal locks operate on a secondary breaker that bypasses the main administrative console."
"Marcus, I can't—that's for visitors, dignitaries—"
"It's a room with a locked door and a bed," he countered, guiding me step by step toward the grand staircase. His bodyguards stood a respectful distance back near the double doors, silent and watchful, their faces unreadable as we passed. "And right now, that's the only place in this building where you're going to sleep."
The walk up the carpeted stairs felt interminable. Every riser seemed twice as high as it usually did, my boots dragging against the thick Persian runner. Marcus stayed right beside me, his shoulder a steady barrier against the swaying of my balance. When we reached the third floor, the air was cooler, scented faintly of cedar and old paper rather than the damp floor polish of the lower levels.
He turned a heavy brass key in the lock of the second door on the left, pushing it open to reveal a spacious room draped in muted navy and cream. A large four-poster bed sat against the far wall, its heavy white duvet turned down invitingly.
I stopped at the threshold, shaking my head. "If management finds me in here—"
"Let them talk to me," Marcus said, cutting off any further protest as he guided me inside and pushed the door gently shut behind us. He walked over to the heavy oak wardrobe, checked the window latch to ensure it was securely latched against the rising morning wind, and then turned back toward the door.
"Get six hours," he instructed, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "At least six. I'll be right outside."
"Outside?" I echoed, blinking through the exhaustion.
"In the hallway," he confirmed, reaching into his suit jacket to pull out a small leather folio and a pen. "I'm going to spend the next few hours cross-referencing every payroll disbursement tied to Olivia's code against the accounts Vance administers. Nobody gets down this hallway without going through me first."
He pulled a heavy velvet armchair across the carpet, positioning it directly beside the exterior handle of the suite door, and sat down with the precision of a sentinel taking up post. He didn't look at me with pity or corporate condescension; he looked at me with a quiet, absolute resolve that finally allowed the tight, agonizing knot in my chest to loosen by a fraction.
I walked over to the edge of the bed, my legs trembling so badly I practically collapsed onto the mattress. I didn't bother taking off the stiff maid's uniform or the collar that had chafed my skin for two days straight; the moment my head hit the crisp white pillow, the darkness rushed up to pull me under.
May you like
Through the heavy oak of the door, I could hear the faint, rhythmic scratching of Marcus's pen against paper—a steady, deliberate sound that kept watch while the rest of the estate slept.
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