Chapter 6 - Secrets in the Dark
The private wing on the third floor was territory forbidden to all staff. Rumors among the maids claimed that people who entered Damian Hail’s study rarely left through the front door.
Marin stood in the luxurious ensuite bathroom, scrubbing the sticky crimson residue from her skin. Hollis had provided her with a simple, high-necked cashmere sweater and dark trousers—clothes far too expensive for a domestic maid. Marin’s damp hair fell over her shoulders, and her thumb was bound with a clean white bandage.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was a text from the night nurse at St. Jude’s: *Posie had an arrhythmia episode at 8:00 PM. Stabilized now, but Dr. Chen says the surgery cannot wait past this month. Balance due: $74,000.*
Marin closed her eyes, leaning against the cold marble basin. Seventy-four thousand dollars. If she was fired tonight, Posie would die. If she was executed tonight, Posie would die alone. There was no room for cowardice.
Stepping out, she knocked twice on the heavy oak doors of the master study.
"Enter."
The study smelled of rich tobacco, aged leather, and paper. Wall-to-wall bookshelves stretched toward the twelve-foot ceiling. Damian sat behind a massive desk carved from black walnut, an amber glass of scotch resting near his hand. He had discarded his suit jacket; his crisp white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal dark, intricate tattoos winding down his forearms.
"Sit," he instructed, gesturing toward a leather armchair opposite him.
Marin sat down, keeping her spine rigid. "Mr. Hail, if this is about the conservatory—"
"I don't pay you to speak unless questioned," Damian said, though his tone lacked cruelty. He opened a manila folder on his desk. Inside was a photocopy of Marin’s driver's license, her background check, and Posie’s medical charts.
Marin’s blood ran cold. "How did you get those?"
"I own the hospital, Marin," Damian said simply, taking a slow sip of his scotch. "I know everything that breathes under my roof. I knew your sister had hypoplastic left heart syndrome before you finished your first week. I knew you survived off stale bread from the bakery down on 4th Street to ensure every dollar of your salary went straight to her escrow account."
Marin felt entirely stripped bare. "Then you know why I need this job. Please, Mr. Hail. Punish me, fine me, dock my pay—just don't fire me. Posie has four weeks."
Damian closed the folder with a soft thud. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, his dark eyes locking onto hers with terrifying intensity.
"I don't intend to fire you, Marin Ross," Damian said. "I intend to promote you."
May you like
Marin blinked, caught completely off-guard. "Promote me?"
"You saw Genevieve in the garden today at four-fifteen," Damian stated. It wasn't a question. "Tell me what she handed Marcus Rossi."
