Chapter 7 A Night Without Rest

CHAPTER SEVEN

Adaline made the coffee with trembling hands. Every movement was carefully measured. She followed the steps exactly as Mrs. Margareta had taught her, afraid that even the smallest mistake would cost her more than she could bear. When she was done, she steadied her breathing, lifted the tray, and returned to the study.

Ronan didn't look at her as she approached.

She placed the cup gently on his desk and stepped back, head bowed.

He took a sip.

Adaline's breath caught.

He tasted it slowly, expression unreadable. For a moment, she thought he might speak, might criticize, might punish. But he said nothing. He only set the cup down and glanced at her briefly, his eyes sharp and assessing.

"You'll stay," he said flatly. "Stand there. Keep me company."

Her heart sank, but she nodded immediately. "Yes, sir."

The hours dragged on.

She stood beside the desk as he worked, silent and still. When he pushed files toward her, she helped sort them. When his cup emptied, she refilled it without being asked. She learned his rhythm quickly, when to move, when to freeze, when to disappear into the background.

Her legs began to ache. Her eyelids grew heavy.

Once, just once, her head dipped.

Ronan looked up. The sternness in his gaze was enough. No words. No raised voice.

She straightened instantly, composure snapping back into place, fear burning away the fog of sleep. She did not let it happen again.

Time lost meaning. When he finally dismissed her, the clock read four in the morning.

"Go," he said, already turning back to his work.

She bowed deeply and left the study on unsteady legs, exhaustion pulling at her bones. Sleep claimed her the moment she touched the bed. Too deeply.

When Adaline woke again, panic slammed into her chest. Light streamed faintly through the curtains. She was late.

She dressed in a rush, barely tying her hair properly as she fled the room and hurried down to the kitchen. Her hands shook as she gathered ingredients, her mind racing, fear rising with every second that passed.

She turned, and froze. Ronan stood there. Watching.

The look on his face drained the blood from hers. She stopped where she was, head bowing instantly, tears stinging her eyes. Her chest tightened as she struggled to breathe.

"I" she started, then stopped herself. There was no excuse. She knew that. Footsteps sounded behind them. Mrs. Margareta entered the kitchen and took in the scene at once. She moved forward without hesitation, placing herself subtly between them.

"She was with you until dawn, sir," Mrs. Margareta said gently. "She barely slept."

Silence.

Ronan's jaw clenched. His gaze lingered on Adaline, small, shaking, terrified.

"This happens again," he said coldly, "and there will be consequences."

Her breath hitched.

Then he turned and walked out, his footsteps sharp against the floor, anger radiating off him even as he left. Adaline sagged where she stood, tears finally spilling over.

Mrs. Margareta reached for her arm, steadying her.

"Come," she said softly. "Breathe.

Mrs. Margareta walked with her back into the kitchen.

Her steps were unhurried, grounding. She spoke as she moved, her voice low, steady, meant to calm, not command.

"You must learn to pace yourself in this house," she said gently. "Fear will only make your body fail you faster."

Adaline nodded, swallowing hard.

They reached the kitchen, the familiar scent of food still lingering in the air. Mrs. Margareta paused beside the counter and turned to her then, studying her properly for the first time.

"What is your name?" she asked.

"Adaline," she replied softly.

Mrs. Margareta didn't repeat it. She only held her gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable passing through her eyes recognition, perhaps. Or sorrow.

"That's all," she said quietly.

She rested a hand briefly on the counter, then straightened. "When you're done here, go and clean his study."

Adaline's chest tightened, but she nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

Adaline finished what she was doing quickly and went down to the study.

Adaline entered the study slowly.

The room still carried the weight of the night cold, disciplined, untouched by softness. Files lay scattered across the desk, some open, some stacked haphazardly as though sleep had never been an option for the man who worked here.

She began carefully, straightening papers, aligning folders, restoring order where chaos had briefly existed.

Then she froze.

A name caught her eye.

Her father's company.

Her breath stuttered as she picked up the file, her fingers trembling. She stared at it as though it might vanish if she looked away too long.

What was he doing with this?

Was he going after it too?

The thought twisted painfully inside her. She didn't know how to feel, whether relief should come, or grief, or something darker. Since her mother's death, she hadn't stepped foot there. Hadn't been allowed to. Hadn't been anything but a shadow locked away, passed from cruelty to cruelty, treated like property instead of a daughter.

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.

She wiped it away quickly, afraid even the walls might report her weakness.

The file was returned to its place, untouched after that. She continued cleaning, until the room was nearly perfect again.

That was when she noticed the books. A neat stack of novels sat on a side table, unexpected, out of place in a room built for control and order. Curiosity tugged at her despite herself. She reached out and picked one up, running her fingers over the worn spine.

She opened it. The words pulled her in gently, wrapping around her mind like something warm and familiar, something she hadn't felt in a long time. Page after page passed unnoticed. The room faded. The fear softened. She didn't know how long she read. Only that exhaustion eventually claimed her. The book slipped from her fingers, landing softly against her chest as her head tilted to the side. Sleep took her quietly, curled on the edge of the chair, unaware of how dangerous it was to forget herself, even for a moment in that room.