Chapter 2 - THE DEVIL IN THE SHADOWS
The air in the room instantly grew cold.
Gabriel Ashford stood in the doorway. He was taller than Harper had imagined, broad-shouldered, clad in a tailored charcoal suit with his black tie loosened at his throat. His dark hair was slightly wind-moussed, and his features looked as if they had been chiseled out of granite by a sculptor who only understood ruthlessness.
And his eyes—dark, amber-gold, and razor-sharp—locked directly onto her.
For three agonizing seconds, neither of them moved. The silence was deafening.
Gabriel’s eyes traveled down from Harper’s wide, terrified dark eyes, over her trembling, unzipped uniform, and settled on her bare back and shoulders.
The chandelier light spared nothing.
It illuminated every violent shade of purple, blue, and yellow across her spine. It lit up the faint outline of a handprint bruised into her ribcage. It highlighted the red trail of blood pooling on the white marble at her knees.
Harper felt exposed in a way that felt worse than nakedness. She felt laid bare before a predator. She scrambled backward against the tub, clutching her uniform to her chest, her breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches.
“Mr. Ashford—I’m sorry,” she choked out, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry. I—I was finishing the third floor. I thought you were gone until tomorrow. Please. I’m leaving right now. Please don't fire me.”
Gabriel didn't answer right away. He didn't yell. He didn't call for his guards.
Instead, his eyes slowly narrowed as he took in the sheer extent of the trauma painted on her skin. A dark, terrifying aura seemed to settle over him. The air became heavy, suffocating.
He stepped into the bathroom.
Harper flinched, pulling her knees to her chest, her hands trembling so violently she could barely hold her dress up. She expected anger. She expected to be thrown out onto the cobblestones of Beacon Hill in the middle of the night.
Gabriel stopped two feet away from her. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a pristine white silk handkerchief, and knelt down.
His movements were smooth, deliberate, and entirely devoid of hesitation.
“Who did that to you?”
His voice was low—a deep, gravelly baritone that vibrated through the floorboards. It wasn't loud, but it possessed a terrifying authority that commanded compliance.
“I—I fell,” Harper lied instantly, her voice high and brittle. It was the instinctual answer she had given a hundred times before. “I fell down the stairs at my apartment. I’m just clumsy, sir. It’s my fault.”
Gabriel looked at her for a long moment. He didn't laugh. He didn't scoff.
“You didn't fall down the stairs,” he said softly, his amber eyes pinning her to the spot. “A fall breaks bones and scrapes knees. Those marks are fists. Those marks are fingers.”
He reached out, offering her the white silk handkerchief. When she didn't take it, he gently reached down and dabbed at the cut on her calf himself. His touch was shockingly light, devoid of the harshness she had come to expect from men.
“What is your name?” he asked quietly, not breaking eye contact.
“Harper,” she whispered, her throat dry. “Harper Vance.”
“Harper,” Gabriel repeated the name as if testing its weight. He stood up, towering over her once more, though the murderous edge in his posture had shifted away from her—and toward something else. “Go finish zipline your dress in the hallway. Wash your leg. Then go down to the kitchen.”
“Are... are you firing me?” she asked, tears finally brimming in her eyes.
May you like
Gabriel looked down at the bloodstain on his white marble floor, then back at her trembling form.
“No, Miss Vance,” Gabriel said, his tone turns deadly serious. “I don't fire women who bleed in my home. But you and I are going to have a conversation about who made you bleed.”
