Maisie woke because sunlight touched her face.
For three seconds, she had no idea where she was.
Then she smelled whiskey.
Broken wood.
And something else.
Pine and stale tobacco.
Her eyes opened.
She was leaning against Reed Ashford.
Her entire body went rigid.
His eyes were already watching her.
Maisie slowly pulled her hand away.
Reed spoke first.
"You're the first person who didn't run."
His voice was rough.
Maisie swallowed.
She should have apologized.
Instead, exhaustion destroyed whatever filter she normally possessed.
"I'm not a hero. I just know my broth spilled because of you, and somebody has to clean it up."
Something changed in Reed's expression.
Not quite a smile.
Close.
A knock interrupted them.
Pierce entered.
"Boss."
Reed's face became unreadable again.
Pierce looked at Maisie.
"This girl needs to sign a nondisclosure agreement. Lawyers are waiting."
Maisie's stomach tightened.
Reed stood.
"No."
Pierce blinked.
"No?"
"She doesn't sign anything."
Reed extended a hand toward Maisie.
"She comes with me."
Five minutes later, Maisie stood inside Reed Ashford's private elevator wondering how her life had become this ridiculous.
The doors opened onto his penthouse.
It was enormous.
And lifeless.
Black leather.
Glass.
Marble.
Perfectly arranged books.
No photographs.
No dirty cups.
No coat thrown across a chair.
Nothing suggesting a person actually lived there.
"You live here?" Maisie asked.
Reed glanced at her.
"Apparently."
She almost laughed.
Almost.
Reed walked toward the kitchen.
"Coffee?"
"Are you asking me to make it?"
"No."
That surprised her.
He made two cups himself.
The silence became uncomfortable.
Finally Maisie said, "I'm not telling anyone."
"I know."
"You don't know me."
"I know you came upstairs when everyone else went down."
That silenced her.
Reed placed coffee before her.
"Why?"
Maisie looked at the steam.
"I knew the sound."
His gaze sharpened.
"What sound?"
"Someone trying not to fall apart."
Reed said nothing.
Maisie lifted the cup.
"We don't have to talk about it."
"You aren't curious?"
"Of course I'm curious."
"Then why aren't you asking?"
"Because curiosity and entitlement aren't the same thing."
For the first time that morning, Reed actually smiled.
Small.
Brief.
But real.
Then Pierce entered without waiting to be invited.
"We have a problem."
Reed's smile vanished.
Pierce placed a tablet on the counter.
Maisie immediately stood.
"I should go."
Pierce watched her carefully.
Reed noticed.
"Nobody stops her."
Maisie looked at him.
Something unspoken passed between them.
Then she left.
She expected that to be the end.
It wasn't.
The next evening, Maisie returned to work.
At 11:03 p.m., Reed entered the kitchen.
Every employee froze.
Maisie didn't.
She was chopping parsley.
Reed approached her station.
"Did you remake it?"
"What?"
"The broth."
She looked up.
"You came down here to ask about soup?"
"Broth."
Maisie narrowed her eyes.
"There's a difference."
"I've been informed."
She stared at him, then pointed toward a small pot.
Reed took a spoon.
The kitchen watched in absolute silence.
He tasted it.
Maisie folded her arms.
"Well?"
"Good."
"Good?"
Reed raised an eyebrow.
"You want applause?"
"I lost twelve hours of work because you destroyed a room."
"Excellent broth."
"Better."
Someone behind them coughed to hide a laugh.
Reed left.
The following night he returned.
And the night after that.
Sometimes he drank coffee.
Sometimes he watched Maisie work.
Sometimes they barely spoke.
But Maisie noticed something.
Reed always arrived late.
And he always looked tired.
One night she asked, "Do you sleep?"
"Occasionally."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one you're getting."
She placed a bowl in front of him.
"Eat."
Reed looked down.
"What is it?"
"Food."
"I can see that."
"Then we're making progress."
He ate.
For the first time in years, Reed began spending more time in the kitchen than in his private dining room.
His men noticed.
Pierce noticed most of all.
"You trust her too easily," Pierce warned him.
Reed stood beside his office window.
"No."
"Then what is this?"
Reed didn't answer.
Because he didn't know.
Maisie didn't flatter him.
She wasn't frightened enough to lie.
She wanted nothing.
That made her unusual.
It also made her dangerous.
Not because she intended harm.
Because Reed was beginning to care whether she stayed.
Then, one Thursday night, everything changed.
Maisie reached for a pan above the stove.
Her sleeve pulled upward.
Reed saw the burn scar running along her left forearm.
He froze.
"Where did you get that?"
Maisie immediately lowered her sleeve.
"I don't know."
Reed's expression hardened.
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"I was six."
"Who burned you?"
"I said I don't know."
Reed watched her.
Maisie turned away.
And without realizing it, she began humming.
A melody.
Soft.
Simple.
Six notes.
Reed stopped breathing.
A glass slipped from his hand.
It shattered.
Maisie spun around.
"Reed?"
His face had gone pale.
"Where did you learn that song?"
She stared at him.
"What song?"
"The one you were humming."
"I've always known it."
"Who taught you?"
"I don't know."
Reed stepped closer.
"Think."
Her expression changed.
"Don't order me to remember something I can't remember."
He stopped.
Maisie gathered her things.
"I'm going home."
"Maisie—"
But she walked out.
Reed remained alone among the broken glass.
Then he pulled out his phone.
"Walsh."
"Boss?"
Reed stared toward the door.
"Find everything you can about Maisie Lel."
A pause.
"Everything?"
Reed looked at the shattered glass.
"Start before she was six."
---