Chapter 5 - The Master of the House
“Miss Carter,” Alexander said, his voice a deep, resonant hum that vibrated right through the tabletop. “You have caused a considerable amount of chaos in my schedule over the last eighteen hours.”
I swallowed hard, keeping my chin up even though my knees felt like water. “Your son was hiding behind a dumpster, Mr. Cross. If your schedule is so busy, maybe you should have spent a little more time making sure he wasn't starving.”
The two bodyguards behind him stiffened instantly, their hands twitching toward their jackets.
Alexander raised a single hand, and both men froze.
He stared at me for a long, agonizing moment, his gaze peeling back my layers—my cheap clothes, my frayed nerves, my desperate defiance—as if he were reading a confidential financial report.
“You fed him,” Alexander said quietly, his tone shifting just a fraction. “You gave him pancakes, eggs, and a safe place to sleep when every instinct told you to stay out of it.”
“I’m a human being,” I retorted. “Not a piece of property you can track with GPS.”
A faint, humorless smirk touched the corner of Alexander’s lips. It didn't reach his eyes, but it changed the angles of his face, making him look even more dangerous.
“Property implies ownership, Miss Carter. Michael is my son,” Alexander said smoothly. “Though it appears you have managed to accomplish in one night what my high-priced tutors couldn't do in three years: you made him talk.”
He leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the diner table, trapping me between the booth and his imposing frame. The scent of expensive cedarwood, rain, and dark espresso washed over me.
“Here is what is going to happen,” Alexander whispered, so softly that only I could hear. “You are going to walk out to my car with us. You are not going to be arrested, your apartment door will be repaired by my contractors tomorrow morning, and not a single soul will bother you again.”
I narrowed my eyes. “And what’s the catch? You don't strike me as the type of man who lets people walk away after kidnapping his heir.”
“There is no catch,” Alexander said, his slate eyes locking onto mine with an unyielding intensity. “Because you are not walking away. You are coming with us.”
My breath caught. “What?”
“Michael refuses to get into the car without you,” Alexander said, glancing briefly at his son, who was clinging to the hem of my sweater. “And frankly, Miss Carter, my son hasn't eaten a full meal in three weeks until he sat at your counter. I am a pragmatic man. I recognize an asset when I see one.”
“I am not an asset! I am a waitress!”
“As of midnight tonight,” Alexander replied calmly, straightening up from the table, “you are the new estate manager of the Cross manor. Your salary will be ten times what your diner pays you, your debts are cleared, and you will ensure my son eats his breakfast every morning.”
He gestured toward the door, where Marco was holding the rear door of a black Maybach open against the rain.
“Or,” Alexander added, his voice dropping into a velvet threat, “you can stay here, face federal charges for harboring a runaway, and watch my security team dismantle your entire life before the sun comes up.”
I looked down at Mikey. The boy was looking up at me with those big, terrified eyes, mouthing two words without making a sound: Please, Clara.
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I realized then that I hadn't just stumbled into a billionaire's family drama.
I had just walked right into the lion's den—and the lion had just locked the door behind me.
