Chapter 7 - The Estate on the Ridge
Clara unhooked the security chain, stepping back to let Julian and Marcus into her tiny, freezing living room. The apartment was immaculate, but the signs of poverty were undeniable: the worn linoleum, the single radiator that sat stone-cold against the wall, and the secondhand sofa covered in a clean, threadbare quilt.
Julian stepped into the room, his tall frame instantly making the small space feel claustrophobic. He didn't look around with judgment or pity; his gaze assessed the environmental hazards—the cold, the thin windows, the lack of security—with the clinical precision of a military commander.
"You should have called the number," Julian said gently, turning to face her. "It’s past noon."
"I was asleep," Clara admitted, wrapping her arms around her chest to ward off the chill. "And then my landlord showed up. How did you even know where I lived?"
"Marcus pulled your employee file from Highcrest last night," Julian replied. He gestured to Marcus, who set a sleek, insulated leather briefcase onto her small kitchen table. "I told you last night that you work for me now. When my employees are injured in the line of duty, I don't leave them in unheated tenements to be harassed by slumlords."
"Julian, stop," Clara said, her pride flaring despite her exhaustion. "I appreciate you scaring Gary off, truly. But I can't just take charity from you. I don't know anything about your business, I don't have a degree in finance, and I certainly don't want to get involved in whatever mafia war caused your dog to get stabbed in the first place."
Julian smiled—a genuine, warm expression that entirely transformed his sharp features, erasing the intimidating crime boss and leaving behind a man who looked remarkably human.
"I am not hiring you to run my financial portfolios, Clara, nor am I asking you to carry a weapon," Julian said, taking a step closer. "Titan woke up at six o'clock this morning. The surgeons tried to check his surgical drains, and he nearly took the fingers off two veterinary technicians. He refused to eat, refused to drink, and wouldn't let anyone touch his sutures."
Clara’s heart twitched. "Is he okay? Is he bleeding again?"
"He’s terrified," Julian said softly. "He spent three days being tortured by men who smelled like chemical smoke and gunpowder. The only person he trusts right now besides me is the woman who wrapped her arms around him and took a heel to the marble for him."
He reached out, his hand hovering over hers before he gently touched her wrist, his thumb brushing over a dark purple bruise left by her fall at the gala.
"I need a full-time residential caretaker and rehabilitation handler for Titan at my primary estate," Julian explained, his voice dropping into a sincere, persuasive register. "The job requires living on the property in the private guest cottage—which is fully heated and secure. It includes full medical coverage for your knee, a vehicle, and a salary triple what Highcrest paid you. Your only responsibility is to help my dog heal, and to let my team keep you safe from any backlash caused by Vanessa Vance’s humiliation last night."
Clara stared at him. "You want to pay me to live at your estate and pet your dog?"
"I want to pay you to restore the spirit of an animal who saved my life more times than I can count," Julian corrected solemn. "And I want the peace of mind knowing that the woman who saved him isn't freezing to death in a condemned building. Take the job, Clara. Please."
She looked at Marcus, who stood by the door with a stoic, reassuring nod, then looked back into Julian’s ice-blue eyes. For four years, she had fought every battle alone, surviving on scraps and swallowed pride. Standing in front of her was an offer of absolute protection from the most powerful man in the valley.
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"Okay," Clara whispered, a weight lifting from her shoulders. "Okay. I’ll pack my bags."
"Marcus already has a moving team waiting downstairs," Julian smiled, stepping back toward the door. "Grab what you need for today. We’re going home."
