Chapter 4 - The Domestic and the Tycoon
I looked at Annie Reed—really looked at her—for the first time since she had walked through my front doors six days ago. She wasn't wearing designer clothes or carrying a portfolio of elite credentials. She wore a faded gray dress, her hands bore the faint calluses of someone who actually worked for a living, and her eyes held a depth of resilience that no Ivy League university could ever teach.
"Why are you helping me, Annie?" I asked, my voice dropping its defensive barrier. "You were hired to scrub floors and dust baseboards. You could pack your things right now, walk out that door, and never look back at this toxic house. Why stay in the middle of a warzone?"
Annie turned off the kettle completely and leaned against the counter, looking out the large picture window toward the manicured lawns that rolled down toward the Hudson River.
"Because ten years ago, I lost my sister in a drunk driving accident," Annie said softly, her voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator. "She left behind a little girl. And I watched the child's father—my brother-in-law—do exactly what you've been doing. He threw himself into his work, hired strangers to raise his daughter, and surrounded himself with expensive walls while the child starved for someone to simply look her in the eye and tell her she was safe."
She turned back to face me, her expression deadpan. "I failed my niece because I was too timid to step up and tell him he was ruining her life. When I saw your boys huddled together in that hallway last week, looking like ghosts in their own home, I realized the universe was giving me a second chance. I'm not leaving, Mr. Morrison. Not because of the paycheck. Because of those boys."
A heavy lump formed in my throat. I swallowed hard, feeling a profound wave of humility wash over me.
"I'm sorry," I murmured. "For the way I spoke to you. For treating you like part of the inventory."
"Save the apologies for when we fix this," Annie said briskly, shaking off the emotional weight. "Now, here is what we are going to do. Miss Higgins thinks she got away scot-free. She left abruptly three weeks ago because she claimed she found a better position with a senator's family in Washington. But she left behind a bank account trail, and she's been trying to blackmail the agency for a severance package she claims you promised her."
"Blackmail?" I frowned. "On what grounds?"
"She claims that if you audit the household expenses, you'll find discrepancies she can spin as embezzlement on your part unless you pay her hush money," Annie explained, pulling a folded piece of paper from her apron pocket. "She sent an email to the agency's primary server yesterday. I happened to be dusting the office terminal when it popped up."
I took the paper from her hand. My eyes scanned the printed text. It was a poorly veiled threat from Miss Higgins, demanding fifty thousand dollars wired to an offshore account in exchange for her silence regarding "internal household management issues."
"She's setting me up," I realized, the gears in my corporate-honed brain instantly shifting into strategic mode. "She thinks I'm vulnerable because of my public profile."
"Exactly," Annie nodded. "She thinks you'll pay to make any potential scandal go away before it touches Morrison Dynamics stock. So, we're going to give her what she wants—partially. We are going to wire the funds to a monitored account, lure her back here under the guise of signing a formal non-disclosure settlement, and let her walk right into a trap."
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"And who plays the bait?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.
"You do, Mr. Morrison," Annie smiled, a fierce, determined expression crossing her face. "Only this time, you won't be hiding behind a spreadsheet. You'll be acting like a father."
