Chapter 3 - The Estate on the CliffThe Mercer estate did not look like a house; it looked like a fortress carved directly out of the granite cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
Massive timber beams, floor-to-ceiling glass, and dark stone structure stood against the crashing waves below. As the Maybach pulled through the iron gates at 2:00 AM, six armed guards dressed in dark suits stood at attention along the winding driveway, their hands folded neatly in front of them.
Nathaniel stepped out first, offering his hand to help me down. The rain had slowed to a soft mist, but the ocean air was freezing. He didn't let go of my hand as he guided me up the wide stone steps toward the grand entrance.
An older woman wearing an elegant gray dress stood waiting inside the grand foyer. Her hair was pulled back in a neat silver bun, her eyes sharp but warm.
"Welcome home, Mr. Mercer," she said, offering a polite bow. "The master suite has been prepared, as requested."
"Thank you, Mrs. Gable," Nathaniel replied, setting his gloves on the marble table. "This is Clara Vance. She will be staying with us indefinitely. Her word in this house carries the same weight as mine."
Mrs. Gable’s eyebrows twitched slightly in surprise, but her professional composure didn't falter for a second. "Understood, sir. Welcome, Miss Vance. I've placed a warm tea tray and a selection of evening wear in the east wing suite."
"The east wing?" I asked, looking between them. "Is that... separate?"
Nathaniel turned to look at me, a subtle glint of amusement in his gray eyes. "Our contract requires us to appear together in public, Clara. It does not require you to surrender your privacy in private. The east wing is yours. No one enters without your permission—including me."
A wave of profound relief washed over me. For all his terrifying reputation, Nathaniel Mercer was a man who operated on an ironclad code of honor.
"Thank you, Nathaniel," I murmured softly.
"Get some rest, Clara," he said, his voice dropping into a gentle cadence. "Tomorrow morning, the storm begins."
He wasn't lying.
At 7:00 AM, I was woken not by an alarm clock, but by the soft buzzing of a brand-new, top-tier smartphone resting on the mahogany nightstand beside my king-sized bed.
I sat up, wrapping the luxurious silk duvet around my shoulders, and picked up the device.
There were eighty-seven missed calls.
Forty-two were from Daniel Reeves.
Sixteen were from Grant Holloway.
Twenty-nine were from unknown numbers—reporters, corporate executives, and Blackridge board members.
I opened the text thread from Daniel. My fingers went cold as I scrolled through the dozens of frantic messages sent between 1:00 AM and 6:00 AM.
Daniel: Clara, please answer me! What was that last night?!
Daniel: Is Mercer holding you against your will? Tell me where you are!
Daniel: Clara, you don't know who he is. He's dangerous! He's using you to get to my family!
Daniel: Please, I know I hurt you with Madeline, but we can talk about this. I love you, Clara. Pick up the phone!
I love you.
The words looked pathetic, hollow, and disgusting on the glass screen. For eleven months, he had never once spoken those words to me. Now, the second I was placed out of his reach by a man ten times more powerful than he would ever be, he was begging on his knees.
A soft knock sounded at my bedroom door.
"Come in," I called out.
Mrs. Gable stepped inside, holding a silver tray with a cup of steaming Earl Grey tea and a fresh morning newspaper folded neatly beside a plate of pastries.
"Good morning, Miss Vance," Mrs. Gable smiled warmly, setting the tray on my lap. "Mr. Mercer thought you might like to see the morning headlines."
I picked up the newspaper.
Printed across the front page of the Pacific Northwest Financial Chronicle in massive, bold black ink was a high-resolution photograph taken at table nineteen last night.
It showed Nathaniel Mercer standing over my chair, placing his heavy wool coat over my sapphire-clad shoulders, his dark, commanding face inches from mine.
The headline read:
THE MERCER CLAIM: PINEHAVEN SYNDICATE BOSS PUBLICLY TAKES BLACKRIDGE TIMBER CLERK BEFORE ANNUAL ALLIANCE GALA. BLACKRIDGE STOCK DROPS 14% AT OPENING BELL.
Below the headline was a secondary article:
“Sources confirm that Daniel Reeves' abrupt engagement to Madeline Cross was completely overshadowed when Nathaniel Mercer personally removed Clara Vance from the venue. Industry insiders suggest Mercer’s move signal an imminent hostile takeover of Blackridge’s coastal shipping corridors...”
I stared at the photograph. I looked at the way Nathaniel held his arm, the way his dark frame shielded me from the crowd, and the absolute power radiating from the image.
I set the newspaper down, took a sip of the hot tea, and looked out the massive glass window at the sun breaking over the churning waves of the Pacific Ocean.
May you like
The payroll clerk from the laundromat apartment was dead.
And I was never going back.
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