My Bankrupt Father Tried To Trick A Ruthless Investor — But The Man’s Dark Secret Changed Everything
Part 2
His thumb moved just a fraction, brushing against the frantic pulse jumping at my wrist.
Leave it.
His voice dropped a register, losing the flat, business-like edge.
It was a command, but there was a strange, probing curiosity beneath it.
I can clean the cuff.
My voice sounded brittle and completely foreign to my own ears.
I tried to pull my wrist back, but he did not let go immediately.
I said leave it.
He finally released me.
I stumbled back a step, almost losing my footing as pain spiked through my injured heel again.
I clutched the wine bottle to my chest, my face burning incredibly hot.
I apologize.
Craig stammered, entirely missing the silent exchange.
She is new and clumsy.
I will have her dismissed tomorrow.
Do not bother on my account.
Dan said, his eyes never leaving my face.
The stain will easily wash out.
Get out of sight.
Craig snapped at me, waving his hand frantically.
I did not need to be told twice.
I turned and fled, my bad foot dragging slightly across the floorboards.
The coarse wool of my dress rustled loudly in the suffocatingly quiet room.
I pushed through the heavy swinging door into the scullery and let it close behind me.
Alone in the dark, hot kitchen, I set the wine bottle on the counter with a loud clatter.
I braced my hands on the edge of the wood, dropping my head forward.
I tried desperately to slow my ragged breathing.
Bloody hell.
I closed my eyes against the sting of frustrated, angry tears.
He knows.
He looked at my hands, and he knows exactly what I am hiding.
By midnight, the house was dead quiet.
Craig had retreated to his study with the last of the brandy.
Dan had been shown to the guest bedroom on the second floor.
I sat on the cold stone steps outside the kitchen door, wrapped in a moth-eaten woolen shawl.
The rain had stopped, leaving the night air sharp and smelling of wet soot.
I had finally taken the torturous shoes off.
My left heel was a bloody, raw mess.
I was pressing a torn strip of linen against the blister, hissing through my teeth.
I had a cup of the leftover cheap wine resting on the step next to my knee.
The heavy oak door creaked open behind me.
I froze completely, the bloody rag pressed tightly to my heel.
I expected my father coming to berate me for the wine spill.
Usually servants sleep when the masters are abed.
A rough, gravelly voice cut through the damp chill.
I did not turn around.
My shoulders slumped in sheer defeat.
It was him.
I heard the heavy thud of his boots on the stone.
He stepped out into the damp alley, leaving the door ajar.
He was not wearing his coat or his cravat.
The collar of his white shirt was open, revealing the thick, corded muscles of his neck.
In the pale moonlight, he looked less like an investor and more like a dangerous brawler.
He struck a match against the stone wall.
The flare of sulfur briefly illuminated his harsh features.
I could not sleep.
I kept my voice deliberately coarse, trying to maintain the pathetic charade.
Begging your pardon.
I will go inside.
I moved to stand up, grabbing my stiff leather shoes.
As I put weight on my left foot, a sharp spike of agony shot up my leg.
I gasped, stumbling sideways.
He moved with shocking speed for a man his size.
His hand shot out, catching me by the elbow before I could hit the wet stones.
His grip was firm, anchoring me completely.
Sit down.
He ordered, pulling the cheroot from his mouth.
I am perfectly fine.
I snapped, the pain making me drop the subservient act entirely.
I tried to yank my arm away.
Let me go.
He did not let go.
He simply pushed me backward, forcing me to sit heavily back onto the stone step.
He looked down at my bare feet, his gaze locking directly onto my bloodied heel.
As I fled up the stairs, I had no idea that my secret was the least of his concerns—what would this ruthless man demand when he finally revealed who he really was?
