Three weeks.
Alina had memorized the creaks of the wooden staircases, the sound of Elora’s laughter echoing through the west corridor, and the exact time Ethan Vance left his study for a second cup of coffee. His routine was precise. His life, measured. But behind that structure was something… off. Like an invisible crack running through a perfect sculpture.
She wasn’t just a servant anymore. Not really.
She was watching.
Waiting.
Learning.
And now, finally, she had something.
—
The morning started with the usual controlled chaos.
Elora refused to wear socks. Ethan refused to acknowledge Alina’s “parenting advice.” And Alina refused to let Ethan’s brooding energy ruin her mood.
“Fine. Let her walk barefoot in the garden and catch a cold,” she muttered under her breath as she followed Elora outside with a sweater in hand.
Ethan, leaning near the balcony with his coffee, raised an eyebrow. “I heard that.”
“I meant for you to.”
“She’s my daughter. I know what I’m doing.”
“Right,” she said, pulling the sweater over Elora’s tiny head. “Which explains the three boxes of cough syrup in the cabinet.”
Elora giggled and ran off to chase a butterfly.
Ethan sipped his coffee slowly. “You’re incredibly opinionated for someone hired to help.”
“And you’re incredibly stubborn for someone clearly overwhelmed.”
Their eyes met. Again, no yelling. Just simmering heat behind clipped sentences.
But oddly… it was becoming normal.
—
That afternoon, while Elora napped and the house rested, Alina took her chance.
She slipped through the quiet hallways and made her way toward the archive records' room—a dimly lit, forgotten part of the east wing where files from the early days of Vance Enterprises were kept. She knew about it only because Greta had once complained about the dust there.
The mission had been vague: Get close to Ethan Vance. Gain access to internal records. Identify Project Revenant.
She had spent days pretending to tidy shelves, watching which rooms were locked and which weren’t. Ethan’s office was a no-go. Always secured. But the records room? The old one? That was forgotten.
Inside, it was cold and smelled faintly of mold. Files were stacked in no particular order. Contracts, blueprints, merger reports—it was all a blur of paper.
She combed through a cabinet labeled “Confidential—2015–2020.”
And then she saw it.
A black folder.
No label.
Just a sticky note inside with two words written in quick, shaky penmanship: “REVENANT - halted.”
Alina’s heart pounded as she flipped it open.
Most of it was redacted. Entire pages blacked out. But she caught phrases—“experimental compound,” “investor withdrawal,” “early human testing,” and most chilling of all:
“One subject unaccounted for. Termination denied.”
What was this? A drug? A cover-up?
The last page had a signature.
Ethan Vance.
She stepped back, throat dry. This was it. Her first real clue. Her first thread to pull.
And yet… why did it suddenly feel like she was in over her head?
—
Dinner was unusually quiet.
Elora hummed softly as she painted on the floor beside the table. Alina helped serve, then stood to the side with a tray of dessert.
Ethan looked up from his wine glass. “You haven’t been hovering this much lately. Something wrong?”
She blinked. “Hovering? You mean working?”
He smirked faintly. “If that’s what we’re calling it.”
Alina set the tray down with a little more force than necessary. “For your information, I’m just doing my job.”
“Right. With flushed cheeks and twitchy hands.”
She stiffened.
Crap.
Was she that obvious?
“I’m not twitchy,” she muttered.
“You’ve been weird all evening.”
She crossed her arms. “I’m allowed to have moods.”
“You’re allowed to talk about them.”
They locked eyes.
And suddenly, something changed in the air. It was subtle. Barely there. But real.
He moved to pick up the dessert tray at the same time she did.
Their fingers brushed.
Just that—bare skin on skin.
His knuckles against her palm.
Soft. Warm. Electric.
She recoiled like she’d touched fire.
“Sorry,” she said quickly, pulling her hand back and taking a step away.
They locked eyes.
He stared at her.
Not with annoyance. Not even confusion.
Just... a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.
“You act like I burned you,” he said slowly.
“No—I mean, not like that. It was just—”
She cut herself off.
There was no way to explain the jolt that shot up her spine from a touch
She bent down to check Elora’s paints, hiding her face.
Ethan kept watching her. Silent. Still.
Later that night, while brushing his fingers through his hair in his study, Ethan replayed the moment again.
It wasn’t the touch.
It was her reaction to it.
The way she flinched—like she wasn’t afraid of him… but afraid of herself.
—
In her room, Alina paced.
She had hidden the print in folder in her suitcase, beneath the false bottom she’d stitched before taking the job. But her thoughts were still stuck in the dining room.
Why had her hand trembled?
Why did it still feel like her skin remembered his?
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
He was her mark.
She was a spy.
And yet—
That moment when their hands met, for just a second, it had felt more real than anything she’d faked in the last three weeks.
She dropped onto her bed and groaned.
“I’m losing it."
—
The next morning, Ethan watched her serve breakfast like nothing had happened.
She smiled at Elora, answered Greta’s questions, and even teased the cook.
But she wouldn’t look at him.
Not once.
And that bothered him more than he wanted to admit.
“Daddy, can we go to the lake today?” Elora asked, mouth full of toast.
“We’ll see,” he said softly, eyes still on Alina.
She disappeared into the hallway with the dishes.
Maybe she was hiding something.
Or maybe… he was.
Because the truth was, for the first time in years, he was starting to feel something. Something that scared the hell out of him.
—
End of Chapter 4
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