Chapter 8
That bothered him in a way he could not explain.
“Why didn’t you leave?” he asked.
Wren frowned.
“When?”
“When you believed the collapse was real.”
“I have rent.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
She understood.
Wren looked toward the windows.
“Because broke people still deserve clean homes.”
Nikolai stared at her.
Then she shrugged.
“And because you looked lonely.”
That hit harder than betrayal.
He had spent years surrounded by people.
Hundreds of employees.
Dozens of associates.
Politicians who returned his calls.
Executives who invited him to dinner.
Women who knew his net worth before they knew his birthday.
And the person who had recognized his loneliness was the woman polishing his floors.
“Why are you resigning?”
“Because I don’t want to spend my life cleaning rooms I’m smart enough to run.”
Nikolai leaned back.
There it was again.
No manipulation.
No performance.
Just truth.
“What did you study?”
“Accounting.”
“Why did you stop?”
“My father died.”
“Tuition?”
“Debt.”
“How much?”
Her expression hardened.
“No.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re about to offer to pay it.”
“I was.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because then I become another person who owes you.”
Nikolai considered that.
“What if I offered you a job?”
Wren blinked.
“What kind?”
“Forensic compliance.”
She laughed.
“I’m a maid.”
“You identified a laundering structure my accountants missed.”
“Your accountants should be fired.”
“They’re being reviewed.”
“You’re serious.”
“Completely.”
Wren stared at him.
“What’s the salary?”
Nikolai smiled.
That was the first question she asked about money.
And strangely, it made him trust her more.
---
Six months later, Wren Delacroix walked into a Cross Maritime board meeting wearing a navy suit and carrying a folder thick enough to ruin three executives’ afternoons.
She had returned to school part-time.
Cross Maritime paid tuition through an employee education program available to every qualified worker, because Wren had refused anything designed specifically for her.
That detail had been her condition.
Nikolai had accepted it.
She had also become terrifyingly good at her job.
Within eight weeks, she discovered duplicate vendor payments.
Within twelve, she exposed a procurement manager receiving kickbacks.
By month six, senior executives stopped calling her “the maid.”
They called her Ms. Delacroix.
Usually with nervous respect.
Nikolai loved watching it happen.
Which created another problem.
He was falling in love with her.
And Wren knew.
Of course she knew.
Wren noticed everything.
One evening, long after the office emptied, she found Nikolai standing on the rooftop terrace.