The house at night was a different beast entirely. During the day, it was a machine of polished surfaces and sharp commands, but after midnight, the shadows seemed to stretch and breathe. I waited until the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer was the only sound left before I crept out of my room. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs as I navigated the back service stairs, my bare feet silent on the cold stone.
The wine cellar was tucked behind a heavy, reinforced oak door in the deepest part of the basement. When I pushed it open, the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and aging oak.
Ethan was already there. He was sitting on a wooden crate, a single dim bulb casting long, jagged shadows across the racks of dusty bottles. He looked different in the darkless like a Grant heir and more like the boy who had lost his parents at sixteen. He had a bottle open, but he wasn't drinking much; he was just staring at the label.
"You actually came," he said, his voice a low vibration in the small space.
"I shouldn't have," I whispered, sitting on the crate opposite him, keeping a careful distance. "If Harrison finds me down here, I'm done. He already looks at me like he knows exactly what I'm thinking."
Ethan let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Harrison looks at everyone that way. It's part of his job description. Besides, he's currently occupied with Grandfather's 'security audit.' The old man is getting paranoid."
I leaned back against the cool stone wall. "Is that because of the coup? Is it actually happening?"
Ethan's expression sharpened, the bored mask slipping for a second to reveal the calculation underneath. "It's in motion. Slowly. I've spent the last week moving the offshore accounts into place. My grandfather thinks he's still in control of the port contracts, but by next month, he'll be signator to nothing but a pile of empty shells. Victoria's father is helping unintentionally, of course. He thinks he's securing a future for his daughter, but he's really just handing me the keys to the kingdom."
He took a slow sip from his glass, his eyes fixed on mine. "It's messy, Sasha. It's all numbers and lies and old men clutching at power they don't deserve. Sometimes I wish I could just walk away from it all."
"But you won't," I said softly.
"No," he admitted, his voice dropping an octave. "I can't. It's in the blood. But being down here... with you... it's the only time the noise in my head actually stops."
We sat in silence for a long time, talking about things that had nothing to do with the Grants. He told me about a car he wanted to build, a vintage thing he'd found in a shed years ago. I told him about the books I used to read back home, the stories of people who could fly away from their problems. We laughed quietly about the absurdity of Victoria's "Sterling Lace," and for a moment, the weight of the engagement and the threats felt miles away.
He reached out, his fingers grazing my cheek, and the conversation died instantly. The air between us became thick and heavy. When he pulled me toward him, I didn't even think about resisting. The kiss was slow at first, almost tentative, before it spiraled into the desperate, frantic Need that had been building since the pantry.
In the narrow aisle between the wine racks, the world narrowed down to the heat of his skin and the frantic beat of my own heart. Every touch was a rebellion against the house above us, a secret kept in the dark.
I woke up with a jolt, the cold floor of the cellar pressing against my cheek. The dim bulb was still humming, but the light coming through the small, high window was the pale, greyish blue of early morning.
Panic flared in my chest like a physical fire. I sat up, my hair a mess, my uniform wrinkled. Ethan was still asleep, slumped against a crate, looking peaceful in a way that terrified me.
"Ethan!" I hissed, shaking his shoulder. "Ethan, wake up!"
He groaned, blinking slowly. "What... what time is it?"
"It's morning!" I scrambled to my feet, my hands shaking as I tried to smooth my dress. "The sun is up. Harrison... the kitchen staff... they'll be starting the morning shift any minute."
I didn't wait for him to respond. I bolted for the door, my mind racing through a list of excuses I knew wouldn't work. I was late for morning duty. I was supposed to be in the kitchen fifteen minutes ago to prep the Mayor's breakfast tray.
If I was caught coming out of the basement at this hour, there would be no explanation that could save me. I sprinted up the stairs, my lungs burning, the silence of the house now feeling like a trap waiting to snap shut.
I reached the kitchen door just as I heard the heavy clatter of the delivery truck in the driveway. I was late, I was disheveled, and for the first time, I felt the true, icy weight of the danger I had walked into.