Chapter 2 - The Hands That Didn't Let Go
The footsteps on the marble got louder, two sets, quick and light on the checkerboard, and I flinched before I could stop myself. My hands were still flat on the cold tile and my knees were burning. The Boss didn't look at the staircase. He stayed crouched beside me, his hand still light on my upper arm, and his eyes flicked once to the guards behind him.
"Go," he said, quiet. He didn't raise his voice. He made a small motion with his head toward the far hall.
The two suited men hesitated half a second, then turned and walked off, their shoes silent once they hit the rug runner. The footsteps from the stairs kept coming and I held my breath so hard my chest hurt.
It was Mrs. Delgado, the daytime housekeeper. I recognized her sensible shoes and the swish of her cardigan before I saw her face. She stopped at the top of the landing when she saw us, one hand on the wrought-iron railing.
"Mr. Rhys, I didn't know you were —" she started.
"Clear the lobby," he said. His voice was even, not angry, but final. "No one in or out for twenty minutes. Please."
She looked at me on the floor, at the silver bucket, at his hand on my arm. Her mouth pressed into a thin line. She nodded once and backed away, her footsteps retreating fast down the east hall. I heard a door click.
The air in the lobby felt suddenly too quiet, just the soft hum of the recessed lights and the faint tick of the chandelier above us.
He didn't pull me up right away. He shifted his weight so he wasn't looming over me anymore and said, "Can you stand?"
I nodded, but I didn't move. My legs felt like they wouldn't hold me.
He slid his arm from my arm to just under my elbow, not grabbing my wrist, and with his other hand he eased the bucket a few inches to the side so I wouldn't knock it. "Slow," he said.
I pushed up on my hands. Pain shot up my right side, sharp under my ribs, and I sucked in air through my teeth. I tried to hide it by turning it into a cough but my hand flew to my side without permission. He saw it. I saw him see it.
He didn't comment. He just kept his hold steady until I was on my feet. My knees were wet where the mop water had seeped through my dress. I stared at the dark spots on the black fabric and couldn't look at him.
"We don't have to stay here," he said. He was standing now too, but he took a half step back to give me space. His hands were open at his sides, tattoos visible on his forearms where his sleeves were pushed up. "We can talk in my study, off the lobby. Door open or closed, your call. Or we stay right here. Whatever makes you feel safer. But not on the floor."
I glanced toward the double doors that led to the main hall. Anyone could walk in. Victor did checks at eleven. If he saw me standing with the boss like this, talking behind a closed door —
"The study," I whispered. My voice was raw. "Please. Not out here where they'll see."
He nodded once. "Okay."
He didn't touch me again until I started walking. He picked up the bucket with one hand — it sloshed — and set it against the base of the staircase, out of the way, like he wanted that part of the image gone. Then he walked beside me, not in front, toward the narrow paneled door I had only ever dusted around, never entered. He opened it and stood back so I could go in first.
The study was smaller than I expected. Dark wood, a desk, two leather chairs, a window facing the side parking lot. It smelled like coffee and paper. He motioned to the chair closer to the window. "Sit if you want. Or stand. I'll get you water."
I sat because my legs were shaking. I perched on the edge of the chair and pressed my hands into my lap. My right wrist throbbed where the bone felt bruised, and I kept turning it inward, hiding it against my apron.
He went to a small bar in the corner, poured a glass of water from a pitcher, and set it on the low table between us, not handing it directly to me. He sat in the other chair, angled slightly away, elbows on his knees, leaving a full arm's length between us.
"You've been guarding your side since you stood up," he said finally, very quietly. "And your wrist."
I curled my fingers tighter. "I fell," I said. The lie came out too fast. "On the stairs. Carrying linens. It's nothing, I wasn't watching where I was going."
He didn't argue. He just looked at my hands, then at my face. I felt my cheeks get hot. I reached for the water to have something to do and the movement pulled at my ribs again. I winced and set the glass down without drinking.
"It was an accident," I said again, softer this time.
"I hear you," he said. He breathed out slowly. "I'm not going to make you prove anything. But I'm going to leave the door open a crack, and the guards are outside the lobby, not outside this door. No one is going to come in without you saying so."
I nodded, my eyes stinging. I kept my head bowed, but I could feel him watching me with that same stern, concerned look from the lobby — not looking away, not pushing closer either.
"My name is Rhys," he said after a pause. "You can call me that. You don't have to call me sir when it's just us."
May you like
I didn't answer. My throat was too tight. The water in the glass trembled slightly from the vibration of my knee bouncing, and I pressed my palm hard against my thigh to make it stop.
Outside the window, I could hear a car pull through the front gates, and my stomach dropped. But the study door stayed open just an inch, the hallway beyond empty, and he stayed where he was, hands folded, giving me the space he promised.
