Chapter 3 - The Shadow of the Past
The secondary master suite on the third floor was larger than my entire family's old apartment in the city.
It featured soaring ceilings decorated with hand-painted gold leaf, a massive king-sized bed draped in white Egyptian cotton, a private marble fireplace that crackled with warm fire, and a walk-in closet that was already being filled with dozens of custom-tailored dresses, coats, and silk shoes.
I sat on the edge of the velvet sofa near the fire, wearing a soft, lavender cashmere sweater and matching trousers that Master Giovanni had provided for the evening. The fabric felt absurdly soft against my skin—so light it felt as though I were wearing a warm cloud.
Yet, I couldn't rest. My mind was spinning.
Less than six hours ago, I was scrubbing the ballroom baseboards, terrified that someone would notice the tear in my gray sleeve. Now, I was staying in the most luxurious wing of the Ashcroft Manor, while the man who had tormented me for a year was being stripped of everything he owned in the basement.
A quiet knock sounded at the heavy oak door.
"Come in," I said softly.
The door opened, and Lucian stepped inside. He had removed his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dark shirt, rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing thick, muscular forearms covered in intricate black tattoos—symbols of his family’s long, violent history in the underworld.
He was carrying a silver tray with a pot of chamomile tea, two porcelain cups, and a small leather folder.
"You should be resting," Lucian said, setting the tray on the low coffee table before the fire. He poured two cups of tea, handing one to me.
"I can't sleep," I admitted, taking the warm porcelain cup. "It feels like a dream. I'm afraid that if I fall asleep, I'll wake up back in the attic room with that heavy gray coat on my bed."
Lucian sat down on the armchair across from me, crossing his long legs. He looked at me quietly for a long moment, the orange firelight reflecting off the sharp angles of his face.
"You will never wear that coat again, Alora," he said softly. "I had Gideon burn it in the incinerator an hour ago."
I felt a sudden, unexpected sense of relief wash through me. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me," Lucian’s voice turned serious as he opened the leather folder on the table. "I owe you an apology. As the head of this family, everything that happens under this roof is my ultimate responsibility. I allowed a snake like Victor Hale to rule my household because I was too focused on blood feuds and territory wars outside."
He slid a document across the table toward me.
"What is this?" I asked, looking down at the legal papers.
"It is a draft of the financial restitution," Lucian explained. "My accountants have recovered four hundred and twenty thousand dollars from Victor’s seized assets tonight. Every penny he stole from your wages, along with fifty percent of his offshore holdings as compensation for unlawful confinement and extortion, has been deposited into a trust account in your name."
My breath hitched in my throat. "Four... four hundred thousand dollars?"
"It is yours," Lucian said firmly. "You can leave tomorrow if you wish. You can buy a house, pay for your sister's college education, and never see an Ashcroft again. You owe no debt to this house. Your father's record has been cleared—Victor forged those debt contracts after your father passed."
I stared at the document, tears stinging the back of my eyes. Freedom. True, absolute freedom was sitting right in front of me on a piece of paper. I could walk away. I could leave the shadows of the mafia underworld behind.
I looked up at Lucian. "Why are you being so generous to me? Most men in your position wouldn't care about a maid's wages."
Lucian leaned back in his chair, his grey eyes darkening as he looked into the fire.
"My mother was a seamstress," he said quietly, his deep voice carrying a rare, raw honesty. "Before my father brought her into this world, she worked eighteen hours a day in a textile factory in South Boston. She had soft, beautiful hands that were ruined by needle pricks and heavy machinery."
He turned his gaze back to me. "When I was seven years old, I watched my father's rival destroy her shop because she refused to pay protection money. I watched her stand in the ruins of her life, wearing a torn apron, refuse to bow her head to bullies."
Lucian’s fingers tightened slightly against his tea cup. "When I saw you standing in that ballroom tonight, holding that torn sleeve, refusing to cry, refusing to let those wealthy bastards see your pain... I saw my mother. And I swore on her memory that as long as I draw breath, no hardworking woman will ever be crushed by cowards in my presence."
A heavy, profound silence filled the room. The crackle of the fireplace seemed to echo the quiet beat of my heart. I saw the monster the world feared—the ruthless mafia Don—and beneath the armor, I saw a boy who remembered his mother's ruined hands.
"I don't want to leave," I whispered.
Lucian blinked, surprised. "What?"
"I don't want to leave the estate," I repeated, my voice growing stronger. "I don't want to go back to being invisible out there. But I don't want to be a maid anymore either."
A slow, subtle smirk tugged at the corner of Lucian’s sharp lips. "And what do you want to be, Alora?"
"Teach me," I said, leaning forward, looking straight into his steel-gray eyes. "You said Victor stole eighty-five thousand dollars from under your nose. Your estate management is corrupt. You have servants who are afraid, ledgers that don't balance, and people who think they can fool you."
I tapped my fingers against the cashmere trousers. "Before my father got sick, I studied accounting at the university for two years. I know how people hide money. Let me manage your household. Let me rebuild your domestic staff with fairness and dignity."
Lucian stared at me for a long, silent moment. The smirk vanished, replaced by an intense, profound respect that made my chest swell with pride.
He stood up from his chair, reaching his hand out across the small coffee table.
"The position of High Household Comptroller of the Ashcroft Estate is yours," Lucian said, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. "Salary starts at two hundred thousand a year. You report directly to me. No intermediaries. No managers."
I placed my hand in his. His large, calloused fingers closed over mine—warm, strong, and completely protective.
"Deal, Mr. Ashcroft," I smiled.
"Call me Lucian," he whispered, his thumb lightly stroking the back of my hand before he let go. "Tomorrow morning, your work begins. And Alora?"
May you like
"Yes?"
"Wear the blue velvet dress to breakfast."
