Chapter 5 - The Sunrise Guard
Over the next two weeks, Noel’s life settled into a strange, surreal rhythm that existed entirely outside the normal rules of society.
By day, she lived inside the high stone walls of the Brooklyn mansion, cleaning rooms that were already spotless, preparing meals for Cassian and his silent guards, and learning the intricate, paranoid choreography of a criminal syndicate’s command center. She discovered that Arthur wasn't just a thug; he was a Harvard-educated accountant who managed three shell corporations in the Cayman Islands. She learned that the cooks downstairs were retired Italian chefs who treated pasta sauce like a state secret.
And by night, she became Cassian Marchetti’s anchor.
It started innocently enough. On her fourth night, Cassian was working late in the penthouse, surrounded by shipping manifests and legal briefs, looking as if he hadn't slept since the previous century. Noel walked in with a pot of tea and found him staring blankly at a financial statement, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused.
"Go to bed, Mr. Marchetti," she said, setting the tea tray down.
"I can't," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "If I close my eyes, I keep seeing Marcus Vance’s face at my father’s funeral, swearing loyalty over an open grave."
"Marcus Vance is a traitor who is going to spend his golden years eating cold oatmeal in a federal penitentiary," Noel said bluntly, pulling a chair up to his desk. "Sitting here staring at numbers won't change that. It will just give you a migraine."
Cassian looked at her, exhausted and irritable. "You have a remarkable way of offering comfort, Noel."
"I'm not comforting you. I'm stating a fact." She reached out, unceremoniously pulled the financial statement out from under his hand, and closed the folder. "Go sit on the sofa. Drink your tea."
To her utter shock, he didn't argue. He stood up, let out a long, shuddering sigh, and walked over to the sofa, sinking down into the cushions.
Noel sat on the edge of the velvet armchair nearby, picking up a book she had found on the shelf—a collection of maritime history. She began to read aloud, her voice soft, steady, and rhythmic, recounting the details of nineteenth-century clipper ships rounding Cape Horn.
She didn't notice when Cassian’s breathing deepened. She didn't notice when his head slipped sideways against the arm of the sofa.
She only realized it when she looked up an hour later and saw that he was fast asleep.
He looked different in sleep—younger, less armored, the heavy burden of the Marchetti empire lifted from his shoulders, if only for a few hours. One of his strong, scarred hands hung over the edge of the sofa, the fingers relaxed.
Noel didn't move. She sat in the dim light of the penthouse, watching over him like a sentinel guarding a sleeping giant.
That was the first night.
By the tenth night, it had become a ritual. Cassian would work until two in the morning, pacing the penthouse floor like a caged panther, until Noel would quietly take his arm, guide him toward the sofa, and read to him until his eyes closed.
And sometimes, when the exhaustion was too heavy for him to even reach the sofa, he would simply sit back in his desk chair, pull her down onto the small ottoman beside him, and rest his forehead against her shoulder, his hand loosely curling around the hem of her sweater.
No woman had ever lasted until sunrise in that room, Arthur had warned her one afternoon over coffee in the kitchen. Mr. Marchetti doesn't keep pets, Noel. And he doesn't keep company.
May you like
"I'm not his company, Arthur," Noel had replied evenly, stirring her sugar. "I'm his night nurse."
"Call it what you like," the old man had muttered, polishing a silver spoon with a lint-free cloth. "Just don't forget whose blood is on those carpets."
