Hazel: Beginning
1850 Words
The morning light was a grey smear against the windows of the sprawling, unfamiliar bedroom—a cold, unforgiving shade that matched the stone walls of the estate.
I woke with a gasp, a rush of awareness running from my nape down the length of my spine, momentarily disoriented by the size of the room. The satin sheets slipped off my shoulders, pooling around my waist like liquid silver. Then I felt it. The freezing touch of the three-carat rock dragging my left hand down into the mattress. The events of the previous night crashed over me in a choking wave—the gala, the contract, the dark ride to this isolated fortress. I was an asset now. But before the paralyzing dread could consume me, a sharper instinct clawed its way to the surface of my mind.
Fynn.
I pushed myself out of the bed, my bare feet hitting the icy, radiant-heated marble floor. I forgoing the change out of the oversized, worn t-shirt I had slept in. I just walked out. The house had a gravitational pull, a center of power I could feel humming in the floorboards. I found Archer in the dining room. A dark wood table stretched between us like a battlefield. He was seated at the head of it, white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing a landscape of corded muscle and a blue map of veins. He was reviewing what looked to be reports, a tablet glowing in front of him, a cup of black coffee steaming in his hand, looking like a man who owned the world and found it dull.
I planted my hands on the dark wood. "I need proof."
My voice felt thin in the silence. I stopped a few feet away, crossing my arms over my chest, feeling exposed under his calculating gaze.
"You told me we have a dinner with your uncle tonight. You told me I am expected to play the devoted fiancée. I will not put on that dress, I will not smile, and I will not breathe a word of your story until I know my brother is safe."
Archer. He didn't blink. He didn't even breathe. His slate eyes swept over the worn cotton of my shirt before returning to my face. The dominance radiating from his relaxed posture made my lungs feel tight.
"You aren't in a position to issue ultimatums, Hazel," he said, his voice so low that it vibrated in the air.
"It is a condition of my compliance," I said, lifting my chin. I dug my fingernails into my palms to anchor myself. The metronome in my chest pulsed to a jagged beat. "You bought an accountant to play your wife, Mr. Hayes. Fynn is my asset. I am not stepping foot outside this estate until I have verified his care is secured."
Archer stared. The silence was a wire pulled tight, ready to snap. A muscle feathered along his sharp jawline. He was quiet and still , he managed to look like he was threatening me. He simply reached out and picked up the black smartphone resting next to his coffee.
He dialed a number without looking at the keypad, his eyes locked onto mine with a steady intensity. He pressed the phone to his ear.
"It's Hayes," he said into the receiver. "Initiate the transfer protocol for the James file. Now. St. Jude’s clinic. I want a private helicopter on their helipad within the next twenty minutes. The paperwork is authorized. Move the boy."
My breath hitched. A helicopter?
"He is being relocated to the Sterling-Cross Institute," Archer continued, his voice smooth and hard.
The name made my knees weak. Sterling-Cross was a research sanctuary for the global elite. A place I could never afford.
"I want Dr. Aris assigned," Archer ordered, leaning back in his leather chair. "Double his grants from my personal accounts. I want a private wing for the boy, round-the-clock nursing, and a full diagnostic workup on my desk by this evening. Yes. Fully paid. If St. Jude’s gives you pushback, buy the clinic and fire the administrator."
He ended the call, tossing the phone back onto the dark wood with a soft clatter. He looked back at me, his expression a mask of raw power. He had just reorganized the hospital of the city and threatened a buyout to move my brother before breakfast.
"The helicopter is in the air," Archer stated, his eyes tracking the rise and fall of my chest. "Your brother will be settled at Sterling-Cross before you finish your coffee. Dr. Aris is the lead specialist on the coast. He won't die, Hazel. Your asset is verified. Are we finished?"
The adrenaline vanished, leaving me short of words. My legs gave out. I stumbled forward, my hands slapping against the dining table to keep from hitting the floor.
He was safe. Fynn was safe.
The crushing debt, the prospect of him dying in an understaffed ward—it was gone. Wiped out by a single phone call from a man who treated millions like pocket change. For three years, I had carried the agony of my brother’s failing heart alone. I had starved myself and worked until my eyes bled. Now, this man had built hope and security around him.
A sob tore out of my throat. Tears spilled over my lashes, tracking down my cheeks. I didn't care about my pride.
"Thank you," I gasped. I took a shaky step around the table, moving closer to him. I reached out, acting on pure emotion, my fingers wrapping around the muscle of his forearm.
The moment my skin met his, Archer went rigid. The air in the room froze. He didn't look at my hand; he looked directly into my eyes, and the glacial emptiness in his stare made my blood run cold. He pulled his arm out of my grasp with a sharp motion, stepping back from the table.
"Don't confuse me for a savior, Hazel," Archer said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Don't flatter yourself. You're a retainer. I did this because I cannot afford to have a distraction in my house. I need you focused on the board and your role. Your brother’s life is the price I am paying to secure your attention. Wipe your face. This is a business transaction. Act like it."
The cold reality of my situation settled over me. I was not being rescued; I was a tool being polished.Something to be used.
***
Two hours later, the door to my bedroom swung open. No one knocked. Five people in black, led by a woman with a platinum bob and a measuring tape draped around her neck like a viper. Without any introduction herself she clapped her hands.
"Clean her up," she said.
Before I could protest, they descended upon me. My old clothes—the t-shirt, my jeans, the sweaters I had washed a hundred times—were stripped away. A young assistant held open a black trash bag, and I watched, my throat tight, as the last remnants of Hazel James were thrown away.
"Posture," the lead one snapped, tapping a ruler against my spine. "Mr. Hayes instructed us that you are to look like money. Untouchable, generational wealth. We are erasing the tragedy."She scrunched her nose.
They measured every inch of me. They pulled my hair, scrubbed my skin, and draped me in fabrics that cost more than my tuition at UCLA.Laces that felt like water, wool that forced my shoulders back. I was molded. I stared at the stranger in the mirror.
The wool-crepe met my jaw,circled my throat and had buttons that ran all the way down to my lower back . Their hands had been all over me.
I sigh thankful that the navy of the dress cancels out the pinks in my cheeks.
The bridge of my nose shined, beautiful shadows formed at the hollows of my cheeks. My brows have never been this flawlessly arched and full before nor the fullness of my round lips been this prominent and…Tempting nude. Ever. Long dark lashes fanned my cheekbones as I blinked at her.
She looked like she belonged to Archer Hayes.
I hated her.
"The shoes," the lead one barked, pointing a crimson-nailed finger at high, red-soled stilettos.
"And get rid of that tin around her neck. It ruins the line."
I froze. My hand flew to my throat, fingers clamping over the locket. The silver plating had robbed off at the corners,–streaks of orange revealing itself underneath what remained, but it was all I had left of my mother.
"No," I said, my voice shaking. "You aren't touching this."
"Don't be difficult," the woman sighed, reaching for my throat. "It clashes. Mr. Hayes has provided an array of Swarovski for you to wear."She gestured at all open boxes of gems glinting in my eyes.
"I said, don't touch it!" I snapped, slapping her hand away with enough force that the sound echoed. The woman gasped, clutching her wrist. The team froze. I backed against the wall, my chest heaving, hand clutching over my heart. I had let them throw away my clothes, but I would break everything in this room before I let them strip away my mother.
A slow, measured handclap shattered the silence.
Archer stood in the threshold of the adjoining suite. He wore a beige suit, looking like a god who had descended to observe the chaos. His hands were in his pockets, his eyes locked onto me and a firm line to his peach coloured lips.
"Is there a problem, Genevieve?" Archer asked.
The lead stylist spun around.
"Mr. Hayes. The girl is refusing to remove a compromised piece of jewelry. It ruins the line of the Armani jacket. It looks... impoverished."Her French accent was thick with outrage.
Archer didn't look Genevieve's way. He kept his hard eyes on me.
He pushed off the doorframe, walking into the room with slow steps. The team parted to give him a wide path. He stopped in front of me, so close the scent of cedar and scotch invaded my lungs.
He lifted his hand and I instinctively flinched, expecting him to rip the chain. But he didn't. His fingers brushed my collarbone, lifting the locket. He examined it in his palm, his thumb tracing the greens forming in the engraving. The contrast between his expensive suit and the chain was a sharp divide.
He looked from the locket to my eyes. A flicker of something dark and quiet passed through his gaze.
It didn't look like pity. It certainly wasn't understanding.
He dropped the locket back against my skin, the metal warm from his touch. Archer turned his head slightly, glancing at the stylist.
"The necklace stays," Archer said, leaving no room for argument.
"Build the wardrobe around it. And if anyone touches her without permission again, you won't just be fired, Genevieve. I will ensure you never touch a spool of thread in this city again. Finish up. We leave in an hour."
- Writer
