My eyelids closed.

Just for a second.

That was the last thing I remembered.

When Victor woke, dawn had barely begun pushing gray light through the curtains.

His gun was against my back.

Then it wasn’t.

He stared down at me.

The maid.

The debtor’s sister.

The woman who barely looked him in the eye.

Sleeping on him like she trusted him.

Victor slowly lowered the pistol.

That movement woke me.

At first, I felt warmth.

Then weight.

Then a heartbeat.

Then I remembered whose heartbeat it was.

My eyes opened.

I saw black fabric.

Blood.

My own hand gripping his shirt.

I stopped breathing.

Very slowly, I lifted my head.

Victor was looking down at me.

There was a gun in his hand.

I made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a prayer and tried to scramble backward.

His injured shoulder jerked.

Pain crossed his face.

“Stop.”

I stopped.

He set the pistol on the table.

My entire body started shaking.

“I’m sorry.”

Victor said nothing.

“I fell asleep.”

“I noticed.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“That part was obvious.”

I pushed myself upright.

My hair had come loose from its bun. My uniform smelled like whiskey. One side of my face had probably been imprinted with shirt buttons.

Humiliation burned through me.

“I’ll leave.”

I stood too fast.

The room tilted.

Victor caught my wrist.

Not hard.

Just enough.

“When did you last sleep?”

I stared.

“What?”

“Properly.”

“I sleep.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

I pulled my hand free.

“I’m fine.”

His eyes dropped to the tape around my thumb.

Then to the dark circles beneath my eyes.

Something cold entered his expression.

“How long was your shift?”

“Normal.”

“Mara.”

Hearing my name in his mouth startled me.

I had never heard him use it.

“You know my name?”

His gaze sharpened.

“You’ve worked in my house for three months.”

That did not answer the question.

“Eighteen hours,” I admitted.

Victor looked toward the clock.

“Your shift ended at eleven.”

“There was extra work.”

“Ordered by whom?”

My stomach tightened.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Paul.”

Victor became very still.

“How often?”

I looked away.

“Mara.”

“Most nights.”

His face changed.

Not loudly.

Victor did nothing loudly.

That was why it was frightening.

“How much of your brother’s debt remains?”

“Forty-eight thousand.”

Silence.

Victor sat up despite the pain.

“What did you say?”

“Forty-eight thousand.”

“No.”

I stared at him.

“No?”

“Your brother owed seventy-two when the account reached me.”

Now it was my turn to go still.

“I was told eighty-nine.”

Victor’s eyes hardened.

“Who told you?”

“Paul.”

The room seemed to lose temperature.

“How much have you paid?”

“Just over thirty-eight thousand.”

Victor looked at me for several seconds.

“That’s impossible.”

A strange laugh escaped me.

“I promise the money felt real when I earned it.”

He swung his feet to the floor.

Pain pulled at his mouth.

I instinctively reached toward him.

Then stopped.

Victor noticed.

“So you’ve paid thirty-eight against a seventy-two-thousand-dollar debt.”

“Yes.”

“And they say you owe forty-eight.”

I did the arithmetic.

My stomach turned.

“That doesn’t—”

“No.”

He reached for his phone.

I stepped forward.

“What are you doing?”

“Finding out why someone is stealing from me.”

My mouth went dry.

“From you?”

Victor looked up.

“Did you think this was only about your money?”

“I thought it was my brother’s debt.”

“It was.”

“Was?”

His eyes held mine.

“The debt should be nearly gone.”

Something inside me cracked.

Not dramatically.

Quietly.

Three months of fourteen-, sixteen-, eighteen-hour days.

Three months of sleeping four hours and waking with my hands already aching.

Three months of believing every extra toilet scrubbed, every chandelier polished, every blister opened brought me closer to freedom.

My knees suddenly felt weak.

Victor watched my face.

“How much are they paying you per hour?”

I laughed because if I didn’t, I might cry.

“They’re not.”

His eyes narrowed.

“What?”

“The hours reduce the debt.”

“By how much?”

“Twenty-two dollars.”

Victor’s expression went blank.

That scared me.

“What?”

He stood.

“You are not employed under a debt labor agreement.”

My heartbeat began pounding.

“I signed one.”

“No. You signed a standard temporary employment contract with a wage assignment capped at thirty percent.”

I stared at him.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“They take everything.”

Victor’s jaw tightened.

“And you sleep here?”

“Sometimes.”

“Where?”

“The laundry room.”

His eyes closed.

Just briefly.

When they reopened, something had changed.

“Get Paul.”

I stepped backward.

“Victor—”

It was the first time I had used his first name.

We both noticed.

He looked at me.

“Please don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I told you.”

“You think I’m angry with you?”

“I think men like you don’t care where the information comes from once someone gives you a reason to be angry.”

That landed.

Victor stared at me.

Then he put the phone down.

“What do you want?”

The question confused me.

“What?”

“What do you want me to do?”

I almost laughed again.

Nobody in this house had ever asked.

“I want to see the paperwork.”

He nodded.

“All of it.”

“Yes.”

“And Paul stays away until you’ve seen it.”

My shoulders loosened by half an inch.

“Okay.”

An hour later, Sofia Hayes arrived.

Victor’s younger cousin ran the financial side of several legitimate companies and had the disturbing ability to make accountants confess mistakes before she raised her voice.

She brought three files.

By seven thirty, my life had become numbers on a table.

Liam’s original debt: seventy-two thousand.

Payments credited from me: thirty-eight thousand four hundred.

Remaining balance: thirty-three thousand six hundred.

Then Sofia found the second ledger.

The one Paul had been keeping.

Extra fees.

Security fees.

Housing fees, though I had never been housed.

Penalty interest.

Uniform deductions.

“Meal recovery.”

I stared at the line.

“What the hell is meal recovery?”

Sofia looked embarrassed.

Victor did not.

He looked murderous.

Paul had inflated the debt to eighty-nine thousand before I ever started working.

Then he kept adding charges so I would never finish.

“Why?” I whispered.

Sofia turned another page.

“There are eight other accounts like yours.”

Victor looked at her.

“Eight?”

“All tied to relatives of debtors.”

The silence became heavy.

Paul had built his own little economy inside Victor’s organization.

Desperate people worked.

Paul diverted their wages.

The debt never disappeared.

Nobody complained because everyone believed Victor had approved it.

I looked across the desk at him.

He understood immediately.

“You thought I knew.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“No.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

Victor leaned back.

“No. I wouldn’t.”

I held his gaze.

“Then you built a system where someone could do this in your name.”

The words came before I could stop them.

Sofia went still.

Victor did not blink.

I waited for punishment.

Instead, he said, “Yes.”

One word.

No defense.

That frightened me less than an excuse would have.

At nine fifteen, Paul entered the study.

Two guards followed.

His confidence disappeared when he saw the files.

“Mara,” he said.

Victor stood.

“Don’t speak to her.”

Paul swallowed.

“Boss, whatever she told you—”