By dawn, Mia was sleeping soundly, her breathing deep and even. Clara had fallen asleep in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside the bed, her head resting near Mia's feet.

When Clara woke, she panicked. The estate rules were strict: staff were to remain invisible. She scrambled to her feet, wincing as her bruised ribs protested. She needed to get back to the servant’s quarters before the head housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, fired her.

She opened the clinic door and slammed directly into a solid wall of muscle wrapped in a tailored black shirt.

Dante steadied her, his large hands gripping her shoulders. Heat rushed to Clara’s cheeks. She had never been this close to him. He smelled of expensive cologne, black coffee, and gunpowder.

"Apologies, Mr. Thorne. I'll get back to work—"

"You will," Dante said, his voice a low rumble. "But not in the kitchens."

Clara blinked, fear spiking in her chest. "Sir? I... I need this job. My brother's medical bills—"

"You are no longer a maid, Clara," Dante said, his thumbs brushing lightly over the fabric of her torn uniform. "You are Mia’s personal guardian. You answer only to me. And your brother's bills are paid in full. Consider it a down payment on my debt to you."

Clara stared at him, her mouth slightly open. No one had ever taken care of her. She had spent her life taking care of everyone else.