Twelve Nights with the Ruthless Billionaire: His Christmas Captive

Six

Lisa POV

There were a million and one ways to interpret what Omarion had just said, but I wasn't going to do that. I'd be delusional to think his lingering stares and his comment, "I can see why Zara likes you," meant anything.

It shouldn't mean anything or affect how difficult it was to breathe properly with him watching me. It should bother me and remind me that men like him, the ones who held the reins of power, were exactly the men I should avoid.

Men like him were the reason I'd vowed never to let anyone make me dependent on them. I'd rather starve than let a man become my provider. I'd vowed never to end up like Mom or Linda.

But Omarion wasn't paying me to sleep with him. I shouldn't overreact.

Before he walked down the hallway with Zara, he invited me to breakfast. I'd politely turned him down because I feared being labeled his favorite by that sour-hearted Patricia, but he'd insisted.

And here I was, standing there powerless.

It seemed like the contract I'd been forced to sign, the one that could leave me penniless, was a joke, considering Omarion was the one actively pushing the boundary. It felt like a trap designed to see if I'd take the bait and lose everything I was working for.

I sighed.

This back-and-forth between guessing his intentions and doing my job was going to wear me down if I didn't get a hold of myself.

I gathered the plastic animals scattered across the rug, dropping them into the storage container by the bed to give my hands something to do.

Navigating the house was an ordeal on its own. The estate was massive, with four dining areas spread across the wings, and I took two wrong turns before I finally found the right room.

It was a smaller dining space with a table built for four. Omarion sat at one end with his attention fixed on his phone. Zara sat at the other end, her legs dangling over the edge while the chef stood beside her with a tray.

"Sorry for the delay," I said, stepping inside. "Finding this room was a challenge."

Omarion didn't look up from his screen, but the chef turned and chuckled.

"It takes most people a week to learn the layout," he said, setting down a glass of juice. He motioned toward the plate of sliced apples and berries sitting untouched in front of Zara. "She refuses to touch her fruit today. Word reached the kitchen that she took a liking to you, so I wondered if you had any suggestions."

I laughed. "I'm no magician, but have you tried cutting them into shapes? Children her age usually eat them if they look like stars or animals. Arranging different colors into a picture on the plate helps too."

The chef looked down at the tray, then back at me. "That's a good idea. I'll try that tomorrow."

He served my plate, adding a joke about how hard it was to outsmart a five-year-old before leaving. I chuckled and set my napkin across my lap.

Across the table, Omarion watched me, his phone now flat on the table.

I squirmed in my seat, the sensation raising goosebumps along my arm, and looked down at my food.

This was definitely a test. And the fact it was a strict rule with penalties meant Omarion knew what he was doing. I took a bite of scrambled eggs, focusing on my food and scrambling my brain for what to ask next.

"Is there a routine or itinerary for Zara while I'm here?" I asked, looking across at Omarion. "I want to make sure I align with her usual schedule."

Omarion wasn't looking at me anymore. He'd already gone back to eating by the time I asked.

"My parents will arrive in a few days. We have family traditions this time of year, along with the company gala."

His tone held no real interest, as if he were reading from a grocery list.

I needed to know Zara's exact schedule so I could plan my off hours. Jasmine had promised to help with my mom, but I still needed to slip away to the hospital to check on her dialysis treatments. Even more pressing was my brother Benny. He was just nineteen, sitting in a holding cell, and I hadn't seen him in over two weeks.

Zara pushed her fork into her plate, breaking into my thoughts.

"Is Grandma coming?"

"Yes," Omarion said without looking up. "She, Grandpa, and Uncle Gabe are staying for the rest of the holiday."

"I hate Grandma."

I nearly choked on my eggs as I looked at Omarion, expecting him to correct her, but he didn't even blink.

I turned to Zara, keeping my voice gentle. "Hate is a strong word, Zara. You don't hate people. You can dislike something a person does, but you shouldn't hate the person."

Zara ignored me. She used her fork to separate the green peas from the rest of her food, pushing them to the rim of her plate until only the bland food was left.

Omarion offered no support. He picked up his coffee cup with one hand while continuing to scroll through his phone with the other.

My gaze drifted around the dining room and I sighed. Just like the other parts of this house, there was no sign of the holidays anywhere.

Back at the hospital where my mother was staying, the nurses had hung cheap tinsel and colored lights, even in the wards for terminal patients. It was clear the house was avoiding the season because of Omarion's wife's death, but avoiding it was going to affect Zara for a long time.

"I noticed there are no decorations up," I said, casually. "Mrs. Montgomery's passing around this time last year must be difficult, but bringing some holiday spirit into the house might help Zara process her trauma better."

Omarion looked up, his brow drawn into a line. I mistook his reaction for lingering grief and let my curiosity push me further.

"How did she die?"

He glared at me.

"Never speak about that subject."

Holy s**t.

"I apologize, sir. I only asked so I could understand Zara better and make real progress during these twelve days, since that's why you hired me."

"When I offered you this job, you told me you weren't a therapist," he said, his voice flat. "Stop acting like one."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to overstep."

Omarion didn't acknowledge the apology. He took a drink of his coffee, set the cup down with a sharp click, and stood. I watched his back as he walked out of the room.

The food on my plate suddenly tasted like cardboard.

There had been no news articles explaining the cause of his wife's death, only brief announcements that she'd passed. At first, one would assume the family had bought their privacy. Now, watching how fast his temper had flared, the silence felt like an itch I needed to scratch.

Later that afternoon, Zara fell asleep in her room for her nap. With no duties to attend to, I walked downstairs and found Mrs. Chen coming through the side entrance with a paper grocery bag filled with fresh produce.

I stepped forward and took the bag from her hands before she could object, carrying it into the kitchen.

"You don't need to do staff work, Miss Bennett," she said, following me inside.

"I don't mind," I replied, setting the bag on the stainless steel counter and pulling out stalks of celery and leafy greens to rinse under the tap.

I turned on the water, using the chore to start the conversation naturally.

"I hope I can find a way to work smoothly with Patricia. She seems very protective of Zara."

Mrs. Chen let out a laugh as she unpacked a container of berries. "Patricia considers the child her personal domain. Don't let her hostility bother you."

"Zara acts very differently here than she does in my classroom," I said, shaking excess water from the vegetables. "As an educator, I'm trying to get a full picture of her environment so I can help her. I brought up Mrs. Montgomery's passing to Mr. Montgomery at breakfast, but he shut me down completely. I thought he was grieving, but he became furious."

Mrs. Chen stopped unpacking. Her hands rested against the counter.

"I only wanted to understand what Zara has been through," I added, watching her reaction.

"If Mr. Montgomery didn't answer your question, Miss Bennett, then it certainly isn't my place to discuss it," Mrs. Chen said.

She turned back to her work and moved the rest of the groceries into the pantry.

Her refusal to touch the subject made my skin prickle. A grieving widower was one thing, but staff who treated their boss's wife's death like a state secret was another.

I wiped my hands on a towel, thinking through the possibilities.

If the public knew nothing, the housekeeper refused to speak, and Omarion reacted with immediate anger, something terrible was being hidden behind the walls of this estate.