Chapter 3 - The Heir’s Retaliation
The penthouse suite on Michigan Avenue was bigger than my entire apartment building.
Floor-to-ceiling glass windows offered a panoramic view of the glittering Chicago skyline, the dark waters of Lake Michigan stretching out like ink beneath the moonlight. The floors were polished white marble, the furniture looked like modern art pieces you weren't allowed to touch, and the silence was suffocating.
Except the silence didn't last.
Crash!
A heavy crystal decanter shattered against the double doors of the private elevator, showering the white marble with expensive amber bourbon and jagged glass.
“Get out!” Dawson Moretti’s voice roared from down the expansive hallway. “I told you I don’t need a keeper, and I sure as hell don’t need a babysitter sent by my father!”
I didn't flinch. I just stood by the kitchen island, smoothing down the cuffs of the brand-new silk blouse Vittorio’s assistant had bought for me, and took a slow sip of my bottled water.
Heavy, furious footsteps echoed across the marble.
Dawson appeared around the corner. He looked worse than he had at the club. His black designer shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, his dark hair was wildly disheveled, and his knuckles were still bruised and raw from whatever wall or person he had punched before I arrived. His eyes—sharp, stormy, and bloodshot—fixed on me with pure, unadulterated venom.
“Did you not hear me?” Dawson snapped, closing the distance between us until he towered over me, radiating a volatile, explosive heat. “I said get the hell out of my penthouse.”
I set my water bottle down on the marble with a soft, deliberate clink.
“Your father paid for my services, Dawson,” I said, my voice eerily calm as I looked straight up into his dangerous eyes. “Which means, technically, you’re my employer’s investment. And right now, your investment is making a mess on the floor that I’m going to have to clean up.”
Dawson let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. He leaned in close, his voice dropping into a low, threatening growl. “You think because you dumped ice water on me yesterday you have some kind of power here? I break people like you for breakfast, sweetheart. I can throw you off this balcony, and my father’s lawyers wouldn't even break a sweat covering it up.”
I didn't step back. Instead, I reached out, grabbed the front lapel of his ruined designer shirt where a drop of bourbon had splashed, and pulled him down an inch so he had no choice but to look at me properly.
“Try it,” I whispered, my voice ice-cold. “Then you get to explain to Vittorio why his ten-thousand-dollar-a-week handler is dead, and why your father’s favorite debt-slave walked away. Oh, and by the way? You smell like a distillery. Go take a shower before I get the ice bucket.”
For three agonizing seconds, the room froze.
Dawson stared at me, his chest heaving, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. I could see the wheels turning in his head—the violent impulse to lash out warring with the utter shock of someone talking back to him without trembling.
Then, slowly, a dark, dangerous smirk cut across his handsome face.
“You’ve got a death wish, Clara,” he muttered, swatting my hand away from his shirt.
“No,” I replied, turning back to unpack my single small suitcase. “I’ve just got rent to pay. Now go take a shower.”
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To my absolute astonishment, Dawson cursed under his breath, turned on his heel, and stalked down the hallway toward the master bathroom, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the glass windows.
Day one, round one: Mine. But I knew the war was only just beginning.
