Chapter 4: The Closed Study
The knock on my door at dawn wasn't Julianne. It was Arthur, Dominic’s personal driver—a hulking man with silver hair and a face carved from granite.
“Mr. Mercer wants to see you in his private study,” Arthur said, his voice flat and devoid of malice. “Now.”
I didn't have time to change out of my uniform. I followed him up two flights of polished oak stairs past portraits of Mercer ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow every step I took, straight to the heavy double doors of Dominic’s third-floor office. Arthur didn't knock; he simply turned the brass handle, gestured for me to step inside, and closed the door behind me, leaving me alone in the lion's den.
The room smelled of old leather, cedarwood, and expensive bourbon. Dominic was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to me as he watched the London mist rise over the manicured lawns. He wore a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, exposing the dark ink curling around his wrists—the very wrists that had held the knife last night.
“You’re shaking,” Dominic said without turning around.
“I’m cold, sir,” I lied, keeping my hands clenched tightly behind my back to hide the tremors in my fingers.
Dominic turned slowly. His grey eyes swept over me, taking in the pale skin beneath my eyes, the slight hunch of my shoulders, and the way I instinctively favored my left wrist where the rope had burned me. He walked around the mahogany desk, stopping three feet away from me. Up close, he was towering, his presence dominating the room in a way that made the air feel thin.
“Higgins tells me you spent four hours dusting the East Wing library last night,” Dominic said softly, his gaze dropping momentarily to my hands before snapping back to my eyes. “That’s an awfully large room for one girl, Clara—or should I call you Dr. Vance’s daughter?”
The room seemed to tilt on its axis. I didn't try to deny it; the lie would have been an insult to both of us.
“You knew,” I whispered, my voice barely carrying over the hum of the radiator.
“I know everything that enters this house,” Dominic replied, his tone chillingly level. He reached out, his large, warm fingers wrapping gently around my left wrist, lifting my arm up into the light before I could flinch away. He inspected the purple-red welt where the rope had cut into my skin, his thumb brushing fractionally over the damaged tissue with a strange, intense focus. “Julianne has a cruel streak. She thinks because she wears my ring in public, she owns the ground the staff walks on. But she doesn't own this house. And she certainly doesn't own the people inside it.”
“Then why keep her here?” I asked, the desperation finally breaking through my discipline. “Why let her do this to people?”
Dominic’s jaw tightened, the muscle ticking once, twice. He released my wrist as if letting go of something dangerous.
“Because some cages have to be locked from the inside until the trap is fully set,” Dominic said, his eyes burning into mine with a lethal promise. “Julianne thinks she’s playing a game with you. She thinks you’re her scapegoat for the charity gala tonight. But she doesn't know what’s sitting in my safe behind the library shelving.”
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My breath caught. “You know about the hidden cabinet.”
“I built it,” Dominic said quietly. “Now listen to me very carefully, Clara. Tonight, Julianne is going to try to destroy you in front of three hundred of London’s elite. She’s going to plant stolen property in your apron during the gala. You are going to let her do it. And when she stands up to announce the thief to the room, you are going to look at me. Understand?”
