Maya’s POV
The security room is quiet at nine p.m., the rest of the household settled into evening routines.
I didn't expect to still be here. The twins have been asleep for over an hour, and my duties technically ended when Lisa's breathing evened out into the soft rhythm of dreams.
But Archie had questions about the weekly schedule—legitimate ones that required cross-referencing three different calendars and the twins' activity roster—and somehow three hours slipped past without either of us noticing.
We work side by side at the long table, laptops open, papers spread between us—professional, focused. Exactly as it should be.
Except the conversation keeps drifting.
"So Nina has ballet on Tuesdays and Thursdays," Archie says, scrolling through his tablet, "but Lisa's art therapy is also on Thursday, which means someone needs to be in two places at once unless we adjust the pickup times."
"Could we shift Lisa's session to Wednesday? The therapist mentioned flexibility in her schedule."
"Already checked. Wednesday conflicts with the security sweep I've got scheduled for the east wing. What about having one of the drivers handle ballet pickup while you stay with Lisa?"
"Nina doesn't do well with transitions involving unfamiliar people. Last time a substitute drove her, she cried for twenty minutes and told Daphne the car smelled 'wrong.'"
Archie laughs. "Wrong. Not bad, not different—wrong. That's incredibly specific for a four-year-old."
"She's an incredibly specific four-year-old." I make a note on my calendar. "What if we pushed the security sweep to Thursday evening instead? After both girls are home?"
"That could work." He leans back in his chair, stretching arms that have been hunched over a laptop for too long. "God, scheduling children is like running a military operation. How do parents do this without staff?"
"Badly, I assume. Lots of coffee and lowered expectations."
"Speaking of coffee…" He glances at me. "There's a place about three blocks from here that stays open until midnight. Best espresso in the city, according to people who care about that sort of thing. If you ever need a caffeine emergency intervention."
"Is that your professional recommendation? Coffee at midnight?"
"My professional recommendation is never skip sleep. My personal recommendation is that their tiramisu is worth insomnia."
I should steer the conversation back to scheduling. I should maintain boundaries, keep things professional, and remember why I'm here.
Instead, I hear myself ask, "What else would you personally recommend? If someone had an unexpected day off and no idea what to do with it?"
Archie's eyebrows rise. "Are you asking for my opinion on leisure activities? That feels dangerously close to a personal conversation."
"Consider it research. Understanding the household dynamics."
"Ah, research. Very clinical." He pretends to think deeply. "Okay, unexpected day off. First, I'd go skydiving. Always wanted to try it, but never had the time."
"Skydiving. Really."
"Don't sound so skeptical. I contain multitudes." He ticks off fingers. "After skydiving, I'd enter a competitive eating contest. Hot dogs, probably, maybe pie if I'm feeling fancy."
"You're making this up."
"I absolutely am not. Third, I'd take a class in chainsaw juggling. It's a dying art, Maya. Someone needs to preserve it."
"Chainsaw juggling isn't an art. It's a death wish."
"That's what makes it exciting. Fourth…" He pauses, his expression shifting to mock seriousness. "Fourth, I'd probably just sit somewhere quiet and read a book. Maybe fall asleep on a park bench like a respectable vagrant."
"That's quite a trajectory. From skydiving to vagrancy."
"I'm a man of contradictions. What about you? Unexpected day off, no obligations, total freedom. What does Maya do?"
The question catches me off guard. I've spent five years with a singular purpose—planning, researching, preparing.
The concept of an unexpected day off, of freedom without obligation, feels foreign. Like a language I used to speak but have forgotten.
"I don't know," I admit. "It's been a long time since I've had a day without... without something I needed to do."
Something shifts in his expression. The easy charm remains, but a flicker of understanding surfaces beneath it. "That sounds exhausting. Living in perpetual obligation."
"You get used to it."
"You shouldn't have to." He says it simply, without judgment. "Everyone deserves time to just... exist. Without purpose, without productivity. Just being."
"That's surprisingly philosophical for a man who wants to juggle chainsaws."
He laughs, warm and genuine, and I feel something dangerous loosen in my chest.
"I contain multitudes," he repeats. "Also, I read a lot of fortune cookies. They're very wise, fortune cookies. Yesterday's told me that my lucky numbers were seven, twelve, and forty-three. Very specific, very helpful."
"Did you play them?"
"I don't gamble." Something flickers behind his eyes, there and gone. "Family history. But I appreciated the specificity. Forty-three is an excellent number. Very underrated."
I laugh before I can stop myself. A real laugh—not the practiced one I wear like armor, but something raw and surprised that escapes before my defenses can catch it.
Archie's expression shifts. The easy charm remains, but something warmer surfaces beneath it. Something that looks almost like wonder, as if my laughter is a gift he didn't expect to receive.
"You should do that more often," he says quietly.
"Do what?"
"Laugh. Real laughter, not the polite kind. It suits you."
I hate how much I don't hate it. Hate the warmth spreading through my chest, the way my pulse quickens when his eyes hold mine.
I catch myself leaning closer. Catch myself noticing the way his collar sits against his throat, slightly askew.
The faint scent of his cologne—something woodsy and warm. The surprising gentleness in his hands as he shuffles papers.
I'm enjoying this, enjoying him. And the realization lands like a slap.
I pull back, check my watch with exaggerated concern. "It's nearly ten. I should—this is late. The work is sufficient for tonight, I think."
"Oh." Something flickers in Archie's eyes—confusion, perhaps disappointment—before the easy mask slides back into place. "Of course. Long day. You should get some rest."
"Thank you for your help with the scheduling. I'll have the final calendar for you by tomorrow afternoon."
"No rush." He stands as I gather my things, ever the gentleman. "Drive safe, Maya. The roads are quiet this time of night, but quiet isn't always safe."
"I will. Good evening, Archie."
My retreat is graceful but unmistakably a retreat. I can feel his eyes on my back as I walk toward the door, and I don't let myself look back.
In the hallway, I pause to collect myself. Breathe. Remember why I'm here.
Through a half-open door, I glimpse Daphne slipping into Xander's office. She moves like a woman who belongs there—comfortable, unhesitating. The soft click of a lock follows.
A murmured exchange I can't quite hear—his voice low, hers answering—followed by silence. The kind of silence that speaks louder than words.
I turn away, my stomach twisting with something I refuse to name.
I'd expected coldness in this house. Calculated partnership at best—a marriage of convenience, of power, of mutual benefit.
Not this. Not the way Xander's voice had softened when he said his wife's name at dinner. Not the way Daphne looked at him like he was her entire world.
Monsters aren't supposed to love like that.
I drive home with my knuckles white on the steering wheel, Lora's voice echoing in my skull.
‘Don't forget why you're here. Don't let them fool you. Don't let their happiness blind you to what he did.’
I won't, I can't. I owe Lora everything.
But the warmth of Archie's laugh lingers in my chest like a bruise I can't stop pressing.