"I see," he says softly. Then, to Moretti's retreating back, he asks, "And her name, sir?"
Moretti pauses in the entryway but doesn't turn around.
"Thea."
With that, he disappears into the house.
The older man sighs, then offers me a small, apologetic smile. "Oscar Benedetto. Head of the household staff. You look like you've had a very difficult night."
I let out a sound that's half laugh, half sob. "That's one way to put it."
"Come." He gestures me inside. "Let's get you something warm to drink."
I follow him into a foyer that could swallow my entire studio apartment. Marble floors. A chandelier overhead that looks like it was stolen from Versailles. Stairs that curve upward like something out of a gothic novel.
It's beautiful.
But it's a cage.
We travel through a gorgeous sitting room with antique furniture, then into an industrial kitchen that's somehow cozy. Copper pots hang from hooks above a large island. The marble counters gleam. Outside the large windows is a vast moonlit garden.
He pulls out a chair at a small breakfast nook in the corner. "Sit. Please."
I do. But mostly because my knees are about to give out.
He puts a kettle on, moving with the kind of efficiency that comes from decades of practice. I watch him in numb silence as my brain tries to catch up, to process everything that's happened. I'm trying to make sense of how I went from being a maid wiping down toilets at the Belvedere to sitting in a billionaire's kitchen after being sold at an auction. How I walked through a door I should never have walked through. How I followed a man I didn't trust because social pressure is its own kind of gravity, and I've never been good at pushing back against it.
"Thea."
I flinch, recognizing the deep voice.
I turn in my seat to see Gabriel standing in the doorway, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows. My eyes linger on his big hands, his muscular forearms. I hate how my body betrays me whenever I look at him.
"Yes?" My voice comes out smaller than I want it to.
He crosses the room, leans against the counter, and folds his arms. He's studying me.
I scan the kitchen, looking for something I could use as a weapon, wondering if that is even an option. Could I actually fight my way out of here?
No chance.
"You are going to stay here," he says. "And you're going to work for me. You will do exactly what I tell you. Understood?"
I stare at him. "Work for you," I repeat.
"As a maid. Oscar will explain your duties."
"You paid a million dollars for a maid?"
"It's better than the alternative." His tone is flat, matter-of-fact. "Those other men at the auction? They weren't bidding on you so they could bring you home to dust their bookshelves, Thea."
"And what if I just leave? We're in the middle of Manhattan. I could scream and have half the NYPD here in no time."
Nothing in his expression or posture suggests he's bothered in the least by my threat.
"In the event that happened, you would likely get the half that are on my payroll."
My stomach tightens. He doesn't need to say any more. I think back to the gate that surrounds the property. It has to be at least twenty feet tall and has all those dense hedges in front of it. There's no way I could scale it.