Bound to the Disgraced Heir

Nora POV

The heavy brass knocker hit the oak door three times before the woman on the other side yanked it open.

She didn't greet me. She just stood there, silhouetted against the harsh, sterile light of the foyer, and looked at the suitcase in my hand. Then her cold, grey eyes swept over my rain-soaked coat and my scuffed boots. She let out a long, disapproving sigh that seemed to suck all the warmth out of the stormy air.

"You're late," she said flatly. "I'm Abigail. The housekeeper. The Harringtons are already in the study. They're leaving in twenty minutes. I suggest you don't keep them waiting."

"I got caught in the storm," I said, stepping past her into the grand foyer. The marble floor echoed beneath my wet shoes.

"Excuses don't pay the bills, Miss Hayes. Follow me."

I followed her down a corridor lined with abstract art that probably cost more than my entire childhood home. The house felt like a museum-cold, silent, and utterly devoid of life. There were no family photographs on the walls, no scattered shoes by the door. Just perfect, sterile emptiness.

Mr. and Mrs. Harrington stood by a roaring fireplace in the study, dressed in designer travel clothes. Their faces were pinched with irritation, not relief at my arrival.

"Miss Hayes," Mr. Harrington said, checking his watch with a sharp snap. "You were supposed to be here an hour ago. The storm is no excuse. Punctuality is everything in this household."

"I apologize for the delay, sir," I said, keeping my voice steady. "The roads were flooded. I drove as fast as I safely could."

Mrs. Harrington stepped forward, her smile brittle and plastered on. "We don't have time for excuses. Our flight is boarding. Let's get to the point." She pressed a heavy set of iron keys into my palm. They were cold and heavy. "Our son is a liability. You are here to ensure he doesn't leave this estate, doesn't speak to the press, and doesn't break anything."

"He's a bit of a wildfire," Mr. Harrington added, his eyes like chips of ice. "We are paying you a substantial amount of money to ensure he doesn't burn the house down while we are gone. You are to keep him here, on the estate. No parties. No press. No leaving."

I looked down at the keys in my hand, then back up at them. "I understand perfectly. He won't leave this estate."

"See that he doesn't," Mr. Harrington said.

Before I could ask another question, he grabbed his wife's arm. "The car is waiting. Three months, Miss Hayes. Do not disappoint us."

They swept past me in a flurry of expensive wool and cologne. The heavy front door opened and slammed shut. The sound of a car engine roaring to life faded into the distance, swallowed by the thunder.

Silence.

I stood alone in the massive foyer, clutching the keys. A wildfire. Great.

I found Abigail in the kitchen, aggressively scrubbing a spotless steel counter. She didn't look up when I walked in.

"He's trouble, you know," she said, her voice low.

"So I've been told," I replied, setting my suitcase down by the door.

"I mean it," Abigail said, finally turning to face me. She tossed the rag into the sink. "I was his nanny. I raised him. That boy is brilliant and cruel. He doesn't just hurt people, Miss Hayes. He breaks them. He finds their weakest spot and he digs his fingers in until they bleed."

I felt a cold knot form in my stomach, but I kept my face impassive. "I appreciate the warning. But I'm just here to do a job. Which room is mine?"

"East corridor. End of the hall. Lock your door at night. And whatever you do, don't let him get under your skin."

"I'll be fine," I said, grabbing my suitcase.

I walked down the dimly lit hallway toward my assigned room. It was enormous, draped in dark velvet and shadows. A massive four-poster bed sat in the center. It was suffocating, but it was private.

I dropped my suitcase on the floor and sat on the edge of the mattress. My shoulders finally relaxed. I pulled out my phone and dialed my mother's number. She answered on the second ring.

"Mom, it's me. I made it," I said, keeping my voice bright.

"Oh, Nora. I was so worried. The news said the storm was terrible up north. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. The roads were a little flooded, but I'm here. The house is huge. It's like a museum." I forced a small laugh.

"And the family? Are they kind?"

"They're... busy," I said, choosing my words carefully. "They're leaving for three months. I'm just here to manage the estate and keep their son in line."

I heard her sigh of relief. "Good. That's good. Listen, sweetheart, about the payment..."

"It's already done, Mom," I interrupted gently. I opened my banking app and transferred the first half of my paycheck. "I just sent it. Use it for the medical equipment, okay? Don't worry about the rest. I'll send the other half when I get paid again."

"Oh, Nora. Thank you. I don't know what we would do without you."

"Don't think about it," I said, my throat tightening. "Just rest. I'll call you in a few days. I love you."

"I love you too, sweetheart."

I hung up and let the phone drop onto the bed. The silence of the house was heavy, pressing against my eardrums. I was exhausted. My brain felt fuzzy around the edges-a warning sign. When I got too tired, my defenses dropped, and my mind became vulnerable to the blackouts. The stress-induced amnesia that had haunted me for years was always waiting in the shadows. I needed to sleep.

But first, I needed to wash off the grime of the long drive. I unzipped my suitcase, pulled out my toiletries, and grabbed a fresh towel. I walked into the adjoining bathroom, turned on the shower, and closed the door behind me.

I had no idea that while I was standing under the scalding water, trying to wash away the tension, the heir to the Harrington fortune was already stumbling drunkenly down the hallway toward my room.

He was about to make his presence known.

And he was about to shatter the quiet peace I had desperately tried to build.

Nora POV

The scalding water beat against my shoulders, washing away the grime of the six-hour drive, but it did nothing to ease the knot of anxiety in my chest.

I stood under the spray longer than necessary, letting the steam fill the glass enclosure. I closed my eyes, trying to reset my nervous system. Keep him in the house. Three months. Collect the check. Save Mom. Go home.

But Abigail's words echoed in the steam.

He breaks them. He finds their weakest spot and he digs his fingers in until they bleed.

I turned off the water and stepped out onto the marble floor, reaching blindly for my towel. I wrapped it tightly around my body and wiped the condensation from the mirror. My reflection stared back at me, pale and exhausted.

I pushed open the bathroom door and padded out into the dark bedroom. The storm outside was violent now, the wind howling against the glass, flashes of lightning illuminating the room in stark, white bursts. The air was cool against my damp skin. I walked toward my open suitcase on the bed, reaching down to unzip it and grab my nightgown.

A floorboard creaked directly behind me.

I froze. My hand hovered over the zipper. The air in the room shifted. It no longer smelled of the lavender soap from the shower. It smelled of rain, expensive cologne, and whiskey.

I slowly turned around.

Sprawled across the velvet armchair in the corner of my room, partially shrouded in shadows, was a man.

He was tall, with long legs clad in dark trousers and a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar. One hand dangled over the armrest, holding a crystal glass filled with amber liquid.

His eyes, a piercing, icy green, were fixed directly on me.

He didn't look startled. He didn't look away. He just took a slow, deliberate sip of his drink, his gaze dragging down the length of my towel-clad body.

"Who the hell are you?" he drawled. His voice was a low, mocking baritone that vibrated in the quiet room.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I clutched the towel tighter to my chest, backing up until my spine hit the wall. "Get out!"

The man didn't flinch. He just tilted his head, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," he said, his voice dripping with arrogance. "You're in my room."

"I am not! This is the east corridor!" I backed up against the wall, my hand blindly searching for the doorknob.

"Right," he murmured, though he didn't sound convinced. He swirled the whiskey in his glass. "My mistake. I suppose I'm a little disoriented. I'm Jace."

My blood ran cold. The wildfire.

"I don't care who you are," I said, my voice shaking. "You need to leave. Right now."

Jace stood up slowly. He was impossibly tall. He set his glass down on the side table with a soft clink and walked toward me. His movements were predatory, like a wolf circling a wounded deer.

"Relax," he whispered, stopping just a foot away from me. He was close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes. He smelled like a distillery and bad decisions. "My parents hired a babysitter," he said, the word dripping with disgust. "And they picked a pretty little thing, didn't they?"

"Stay away from me," I warned, my voice trembling.

"Or what?" He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my face. "You'll tell my parents? They're on a jet to Europe, sweetheart. There's no one here to save you."

"I'm not afraid of you," I lied.

"You should be." His smirk widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. There was something dark and hollow in his gaze. "I don't like being watched. I don't like being managed. And I especially don't like strangers sleeping in my house."

"This is my room," I said, trying to inject some authority into my voice. "Your parents assigned it to me."

"Did they?" He reached out, his fingers brushing the damp hair away from my shoulder. I flinched, but I couldn't move. "Well, maybe I'll just stay here. Keep you company."

"Abby!" I screamed, ducking under his arm and wrenching the door open. "Abby!"

I sprinted down the dark hallway, barefoot and panicked, my heart pounding in my ears. The towel flapped wildly around my thighs. The marble floor was freezing, but I barely felt it. All I felt was the sheer, terrifying panic of being cornered.

Abigail burst out of the service stairwell, a heavy brass candlestick held high like a weapon. "What is it, Miss Hayes? Are you alright?"

"He-he was in my room!" I gasped, pointing down the hall. "Jace!"

Jace strolled out of my bedroom, his hands casually tucked into his pockets. He didn't look like a man who had just been caught; he looked like a man who had just won a game.

"Jace!" Abigail snapped, her voice cracking like a whip. "What do you think you are doing?"

"I got lost, Abby. I'm a little drunk," he said smoothly. His eyes never left my face, burning with a dark, amused intensity.

"Then go to bed!" Abigail ordered, stepping between us and shielding me with her body. "Your room is on the west wing. The one with the black door. Now, go!"

Jace held up his hands in mock surrender. He walked past us toward the grand staircase. He stopped halfway up the first flight of stairs and turned his head, looking down at me.

"Nice towel," he said softly, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "We'll talk tomorrow, Nora."

He disappeared into the shadows of the second floor.

I stood there, trembling violently, my teeth chattering.

"He's a monster," I whispered, tears of shock and frustration welling in my eyes.

"He's damaged," Abigail corrected softly, her hand resting gently on my shaking shoulder. "But you're right. He is a monster. I'm so sorry, dear. Lock your door tonight."

I walked back into my room on unsteady legs. I slammed the door shut and turned the deadbolt. For good measure, I dragged the heavy velvet armchair across the floor and wedged it under the doorknob.

I changed into my pajamas and crawled into the massive bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. The storm raged on outside, lightning flashing against the glass.

I closed my eyes, trying to force my breathing to slow down. I couldn't afford this kind of stress. I couldn't afford to forget things. I had to get a grip.

I had survived my own mind for years. I could survive a spoiled, arrogant heir.

But as I finally drifted off into a restless, uneasy sleep, I didn't know that Jace Harrington wasn't just a cruel boy in a dark room.

He was the man who would eventually steal my heart, break it into a million pieces, and leave me with a scar so deep that my mind would have no choice but to erase him completely.

And I had just walked right into his trap.

Nora POV

I didn't sleep.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those piercing green eyes in the shadows. I felt the phantom heat of his breath against my skin and heard the mocking drawl of his voice. The storm had finally died down around four in the morning, leaving behind a heavy, suffocating silence. I had spent the rest of the night sitting upright in bed, my back pressed against the headboard, listening to every creak and groan of the old house.

When the first pale rays of dawn crept through the curtains, I finally allowed myself to breathe.

I got up, my muscles aching from tension, and dressed in a simple pair of dark jeans and a crisp white blouse. I pulled my damp hair back into a tight ponytail and stared at my reflection in the mirror. My face was pale, the shadows under my eyes dark.

He's just a boy, I told myself. A spoiled, drunk, arrogant boy. You are a professional. You are here for your mother. You will not let him break you.

I walked down the corridor toward the kitchen, the smell of coffee and bacon pulling me forward. Abigail was already at the stove, moving with the brisk efficiency of a woman who had been awake for hours. She glanced at me as I entered, her grey eyes sweeping over my tired face.

"You didn't sleep," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Not much," I admitted, sliding onto one of the high stools at the kitchen island.

Abigail poured me a cup of black coffee and set it down in front of me. "I'm sorry, dear. I should have warned you more clearly. When he drinks, he becomes... unpredictable."

"I can handle the unpredictable," I said, wrapping my hands around the warm mug.

The kitchen door swung open.

Jace strolled in, looking completely unaffected by the previous night's events. He was dressed in a simple black T-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders and grey sweatpants. His dark hair was messy, his jaw shadowed with stubble. He looked infuriatingly handsome.

He didn't look at me. He walked straight to the coffee machine, poured himself a cup, and leaned against the counter. He took a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes fixed on the garden outside the window.

The silence was thick, heavy with the memory of the night before. Abigail busied herself with the bacon, clearly trying to stay out of the crossfire.

I decided to take control. I was the caretaker. I was in charge.

"Your parents left a schedule for you," I said, my voice steady. I pulled a folded piece of paper from my pocket-the list Mr. Harrington had given me. "You have online meetings with the family business every Tuesday and Thursday at ten. You are expected to attend. You are also not to leave the grounds. Your curfew is midnight."

Jace didn't turn around. He took another sip of his coffee.

"And?" he said, his voice flat.

"And I expect you to follow these rules," I said. "I'm not here to be your enemy, Jace. I'm just here to do my job."

He finally turned. He looked at me, his eyes cold and unreadable. Then, he laughed. It was a short, harsh, humorless sound that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

"My job," he repeated slowly. He set his mug down on the counter and walked toward me. He stopped on the other side of the island, his hands resting flat on the marble. "You think you're the first one they hired? The first babysitter?"

I didn't answer.

"They sent three before you," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. "The first one lasted a week. The second one lasted three days. The third one... well, she didn't even make it through the night. She was crying in her car by dawn, begging the agency to transfer her."

"I'm not them," I said, meeting his gaze without flinching.

"No," he said, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "You're different. I can see it. You're the stubborn type. The type who thinks she can fix the broken boy with a little kindness and a few rules." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But let me tell you a secret, Nora. There is no fixing me. And I will make your life a living hell until you pack your bags and run."

"I'm not running," I said. "I signed a contract. I'm here for three months."

"Then you're even stupider than you look," he said, leaning back.

He picked up his coffee mug and walked toward the kitchen door. He paused, looking over his shoulder.

"Oh, and Nora?" he added, his voice dripping with mock politeness. "I wouldn't get too comfortable in that room of yours. It gets drafty at night. I'd hate for you to catch a cold."

He walked out, leaving the door swinging shut behind him.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. My heart was pounding.

Abigail let out a heavy sigh. "That went better than I expected."

"Better?" I said, incredulous. "He just threatened me."

"He didn't threaten you," Abigail said, flipping the bacon. "He warned you. There's a difference. He's testing your limits. He wants to see if you'll break."

"I'm not going to break," I said, my jaw tightening.

I spent the rest of the morning trying to figure out my next move. I couldn't just sit around and wait for him to make the next move. I had to establish my authority. I had to make it clear that I was not going to be intimidated.

That afternoon, I decided to explore the estate. The house was a maze of corridors and empty rooms. I found the library-a vast, two-story room lined with books that smelled of dust and old leather. I found the indoor pool, the gym, the conservatory filled with dying plants.

It was all beautiful, but it was all so cold.

I ended up in the west wing, where Jace's room was located. The door was closed. I paused, my hand hovering over the handle. I shouldn't go in. I had no reason to. But something pulled me forward.

I knocked. No answer.

I pushed the door open.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn. Clothes were scattered on the floor. Empty bottles of whiskey lined the dresser. It looked like a war zone.

And in the middle of the chaos, Jace was sitting on the floor, his back against the bed, staring at the wall. He was holding a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

He didn't look up when I entered.

"Get out," he said, his voice hoarse.

"No," I said. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. "This is unacceptable. You can't live like this."

"This is my room," he said, finally looking up. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale. "I can live however I want."

"Your parents hired me to manage this estate," I said, my voice firm. "That includes ensuring you don't live in a pigsty. Now, get up. We're cleaning this."

He stared at me for a long moment. I could see the anger flaring in his eyes, the tension in his jaw. He gripped the whiskey bottle tighter.

"You don't get to tell me what to do," he said, his voice shaking with rage. "You're just the help."

"And you're just a spoiled brat," I shot back, the words leaving my mouth before I could stop them.

The room went dead silent. Jace's eyes widened, and then a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. He slowly pushed himself up off the floor, the whiskey bottle dangling from his fingers.

"A spoiled brat," he repeated, his voice deadly quiet. He walked toward me, his movements slow and deliberate. "Is that what you think I am?"

I stood my ground, even as my heart hammered against my ribs. "I think you're a coward. You hide behind your money and your alcohol and your cruel words. You push people away because you're terrified of anyone getting close."

He stopped inches from me, his eyes blazing. He raised the whiskey bottle, and for a terrifying second, I thought he was going to throw it at me.

Instead, he laughed. It was a deep, genuine laugh that seemed to catch him off guard.

"You've got guts, Nora," he said, shaking his head. "I'll give you that."

He turned away and threw the whiskey bottle into the trash can.

"I'll clean this up," he said, his voice lighter now. "But don't expect me to be your friend. I don't make friends."

"I don't want a friend," I said. "I want a cooperative client."

He smirked, a flicker of the arrogant boy returning. "Good luck with that."

He walked toward his dresser and started gathering the empty bottles. I turned to leave, feeling a strange, unexpected sense of victory.

But as I reached for the door, he spoke again.

"Hey, Nora?"

I paused, looking over my shoulder.

"You should check your room," he said, his back to me. "I told you it gets drafty at night."

I didn't understand what he meant. I walked back to my room, the strange warning echoing in my head.

I pushed open the door.

The room was freezing. The window was wide open, the curtains blowing wildly in the wind. And on the floor, in the middle of the room, was a small, crumpled piece of paper.

I picked it up. It was a note, written in a sharp, messy scrawl.

"Three months is a long time, Nora. A lot can happen. Watch your back."

My blood ran cold.

I looked at the open window. The latch had been broken. I looked at the note again, the words burning into my brain.

I had survived the first day. But as I stared at the broken window and the threatening note, I realized the war was only just beginning.

And I wasn't sure if I was going to win.