Chapter 5 - The Weight of the Morning Shift
The elevator ride back up to the main residential floor felt entirely different from the descent. The small mirrored cabin reflected my tired face, the purple shadow under my eye looking starker against the harsh overhead lights, but the amber tube of cream in my uniform pocket felt like an anchor. Dr. Vance’s warning echoed in my mind with every footstep I took down the silent corridor leading back to the luxury kitchen.
When I pushed through the swinging double doors, the kitchen was quiet, bathed in the cool, pre-dawn blue light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the estate's rear gardens. The white marble countertops had been cleared of the skillet and the plates from earlier, but a fresh copper pot sat on the induction burner, and sitting on a stool by the central island was Mr. Moretti.
He had removed his dark tailored suit jacket, leaving him in his open-collared black shirt with the sleeves neatly folded back to his elbows, revealing lean, muscular forearms. He was reviewing a thick sheaf of paper clipped to a leather board—likely supply manifests or security reports—with the same intense, unbroken focus he had applied to watching me scrub plates hours earlier.
He didn't look up immediately as I walked in, letting the silence stretch until I had washed my hands at the sink and tied my apron back around my waist.
"Vance give you what you needed?" he asked, his voice cutting through the hum of the refrigeration units.
"Yes, Mr. Moretti. Thank you," I said, keeping my voice steady and professional, though my pulse ticked faster against my ribs. "He gave me a topical cream for the bruising."
Moretti lowered the clipboard, resting it against the marble surface. His dark eyes locked onto mine, searching my face with an unsettling intensity that made it difficult to hold his gaze. "And did he ask questions you didn't want to answer?"
"Dr. Vance is a professional. He understands discretion."
"Good," Moretti said, standing up from the stool with a fluid, controlled motion. He walked slowly toward the island, stopping just a few feet away from me. At this proximity, the sheer physical presence of the man was overwhelming—not because he threatened me, but because he radiated an absolute, unshakeable authority that seemed to bend the very air around him. "In this house, discretion isn't just a preference. It's the primary condition of employment. Whoever put those marks on you made a very serious miscalculation about whose property they were damaging."
A cold knot formed in my stomach. "I am not property, Mr. Moretti."
A faint, humorless smile touched the corner of his mouth, vanishing almost as quickly as it appeared. "In the eyes of the people you're trying to hide from, you are. In my house, you are a member of my staff, and my staff answers to me. No one else."
Before I could formulate a reply, the heavy oak doors at the far end of the kitchen swung open with a sharp click. A junior butler in a gray vest stepped inside, stopping abruptly when he saw Moretti standing close to the island. The young man looked pale, holding a silver tray bearing a sealed envelope.
"Sir," the butler said, his voice tight with nervous energy. "A courier delivered this to the front gate lodge ten minutes ago. Security cleared it, but... they flagged it for your personal attention."
Moretti didn't break eye contact with me for a second before turning his head slightly toward the newcomer. "Put it on the counter, Julian."
Julian hurried forward, placing the heavy cream envelope next to the copper pot before retreating backward toward the door with a quick nod. The door swung shut, leaving us alone once more.
Moretti picked up the envelope, turning it over in his hands. The address was handwritten in thick, aggressive black ink, bearing no return address—only a wax seal stamped with an unfamiliar family crest. A shadow crossed Moretti's face, a momentary tightening of his jaw that revealed the high-stakes world operating just beneath the polished surface of his estate.
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"Make yourself useful," Moretti said quietly, tossing the unopened envelope onto the marble slab near my elbow. "Brew a pot of black coffee. Strong. We have matters to discuss before the rest of the household wakes up."
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