Chapter 6 - An Unspoken Bargain
The heavy silence returned, thick with the scent of lilies and the cold reality of the trap closing around them.
Quinn took a deep, steadying breath, her chest rising against the stiff fabric of her black uniform dress. She looked past Declan’s wide shoulder toward the double mahogany doors leading to the grand gallery. She could hear the distant, muffled sounds of the estate stirring to life: the click of silver trays, the soft murmur of security personnel conducting morning perimeter sweeps, and the unmistakable, sharp cadence of high heels echoing across marble three corridors away.
Evelyn Sullivan was approaching.
Quinn looked back up at Declan. Her brown eyes were no longer clouded with shock; they were clear, sharp, and blazing with the fierce, pragmatic intelligence of a working-class woman who had survived on her own two feet since she was eighteen.
“If your mother brought me here to test you,” Quinn said, her voice dropping into a low, crisp rhythm, “she expects me to be intimidated. She expects a florist from 18th Street to tremble in front of her silver teapots, take a settlement check to leave the city, and confirm her theory that everyone has a price.”
Declan’s dark brows lifted a fraction of an inch, an appreciative, dangerous glint sparking in the depths of his hazel eyes. “She has a check for two million dollars already drafted in her private desk. She intends to offer it to you within ten minutes of entering this room, along with a polite suggestion that you relocate your business to Seattle.”
A cold, humorless laugh escaped Quinn’s lips.
“Two million dollars,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Your family certainly loves placing a price tag on other people’s lives.”
She took a half-step closer to him, closing the distance between them until the ruffled lace of her white collar almost grazed the dark wool of his waistcoat. The height difference was staggering—her head barely reached the middle of his broad chest—yet her posture held an unyielding, sovereign power that made Declan’s pupils dilate.
“Let’s get something very clear, Mr. Sullivan,” Quinn said, her American accent carrying a razor-sharp edge. “I am not your weakness. I am not a pawn for you to feel noble about protecting in your armored cars, and I am certainly not a tool your mother can use to prune your family tree.”
Declan stared down at her, his jaw tightening, the ink along his throat shifting as he swallowed hard. The proximity was intoxicating. He could smell the clean, sweet aroma of gardenias, fresh earth, and crushed mint that clung to her skin, so vastly different from the heavy, suffocating perfumes of the high-society heiresses who circled his dinner tables.
“You have two choices, Quinn,” Declan murmured, his voice rough as sandpaper, vibrating with an intensity that made her pulse leap against her ribs. “You can take the servant’s exit behind that screen right now. My driver will take you to the train station, and my private office will ensure your shop remains untouched for the next fifty years. You can walk away, clean, and never see my face again.”
Quinn tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “And the second choice?”
Declan’s lips parted slightly, his dark gaze locking onto her mouth for a fraction of a second before rising back to meet her hazel eyes with an unshakeable, terrifying vow.
“You stay beside that crystal vase,” Declan whispered. “You let my mother offer her paper. And you let me show this entire family what happens to anyone who tries to remove you from my sight.”
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Quinn looked at him. She saw the scars on his knuckles, the lethal authority carved into his jaw, and the bottomless, terrifying hunger in his gaze—a hunger that had waited in the dark for two years without ever demanding a single crumb.
Before she could speak, the heavy brass levers of the salon doors turned with a crisp, echoing click.
