Chapter 2 Eleanor's POV
I flinched.
Not the polite little startle of a clumsy servant—no, this was raw, human panic as I bent to retrieve the spoon, heat flooding my cheeks like I’d been slapped.
“My apologies, Madam, Sir,” I stammered, thickening my English accent just enough to sound earnest,and harmless. “So clumsy of me.”
As I straightened, I let my eyes, wide, startled—flick to David’s. “It’s just… it sounded so… loud. A rather… blunt instrument, if you’ll pardon the phrase.”
The words slipped out like a secret I hadn’t meant to tell. And then they hung there—echoing Alec’s unspoken verdict with eerie precision.
Silence.
The kind where even the wind holds its breath.
Beatrice’s eyebrows arched, elegant as a drawn bow. David blinked, confused, then scowled as if I’d insulted his intelligence. which technically I did, but it was Alec who stopped my heart.
His head turned.. A slow, deliberate pivot, like a tank turret locking onto a target. Those cool grey eyes—once dismissive, now dissecting—narrowed.
He wasn’t angry. Worse, he was interested.
On a man like Alexander Sterling, curiosity wasn’t flattery. It was a death sentence
He wasn’t seeing the maid anymore. He was seeing through her—to the girl behind the starched collar, the one who read Sun Tzu in bed and knew the difference between a show of force and a strategic surrender.
My pulse hammered against my ribs like a prisoner begging to be let out. Idiot! Five years of planning, of forging a fake identity, of sleeping with one eye open—my father’s warnings echoing in my mind like a relentless drumbeat. Each lesson on discretion and survival came crashing back. How could I have risked everything for an impulsive comment? The memory of him teaching me to blend in, to remain invisible, felt like a weight tied to my chest.
I forced myself to meet his gaze for half a heartbeat—just long enough to register mortified confusion, before letting my eyes skitter away, shoulders hunching like a spooked doe. Inside, my mind sprinted: Fire exits through the east wing, pepper spray in the apron pocket and the window latch on the second-floor utility closet—unlocked?
“It’s fine, Eleanor,” Beatrice said, waving a dismissive hand. “The spoon is undamaged. No harm done.”
Phewww. I let out a breath I did not realize i held
“Thank you, Madam,” I whispered, voice so soft it barely disturbed the air. I gathered the tea service, my fingers closing around the cool, polished silver that sent a shiver up my spine, a stark contrast to the warmth of the kitchen. The faint aroma of freshly brewed tea mingled with a hint of lemon, wrapping around me like a comforting embrace even as my heart raced.
I didn’t look at Alec again. But I felt him—his gaze like a searing brand between my shoulder blades, hot and intrusive. The air around me crackled with unspoken tension, thick as fog, wrapping around me and suffocating every thought I tried to hold onto
I retreated through the glass door into the house, stepping from theatre into tomb.
The living room was a shrine to cold perfection: polished concrete floors that gleamed under the overhead lights, a vast grey sofa that loomed like a fortress, its texture smooth and uninviting, probably costing more than my father's life insurance. The air held a sharp, sterile scent, tinged with the faintest hint of citrus, as if even the environment wanted to remind me of its opulence and distance.
In the kitchen, I set the tray on the quartz island and braced my hands against the marble, legs trembling. I closed my eyes and drew a slow breath—in through the nose, out through the teeth, the way my father taught me before his hands started shaking too much to hold a teacup.
A blunt instrument.
Why had I said it? Because it was true. David’s plan was brute-force idiocy.
This was bad.
I hadn’t just spoken. I’d drawn a line in the sand.
And Alexander Sterling had just stepped across it.
A sound from the hallway—footsteps, heavy and confident, echoing with purpose as they drew closer. My breath hitched, adrenaline surging, each step drumming a warning in my ears. His.
I turned on the tap, pretending to wipe the already immaculate counter, spine rigid. The footsteps stopped in the kitchen doorway. I didn’t turn. Didn’t breathe. Every nerve ending screamed: predator.
He didn’t speak. Just stood there, his presence leaching the warmth from the room, the air itself growing dense and heavy.
After what felt like a lifetime, the footsteps resumed, fading down the hall toward his study.
Only when I heard the soft, final click of his door did I exhale. Relief washed over me, almost choking in its intensity—a ragged, shuddering breath escaping my lips, the kind I didn’t know I was holding in. For a moment, the room felt lighter, the weight of his scrutiny lifting like a shroud.
I looked down at my hands. Still steady. Good.
Panic had given way to the sharp, icy light of understanding that felt at once familiar. It was an understanding that had served me well during those midnight sessions with Father, when fear had lurked only at the edge of my consciousness. Now, it felt like a sword that could slice away deception, only to slice away at the doubts that had lain slumbering beneath.
The game had changed. My accidental move had been seen, and a man like Alec wouldn’t ignore an anomaly. He’d dissect it. Unravel it. Find the lie.
But he had no idea.
I wasn’t a loose thread.
I was the whole damn tapestry—woven in shadow, dyed in blood, and stitched with the same ruthless logic that ruled his empire.
A small, grim smile touched my lips.
Right, Mr Sterling, turning off the tap with a quiet snick.
Now you've caught my attention.