A Bride For Him

CHAPTER 5: Mr. Sullivan

Ruby

I freeze. Every muscle in my back locks at the sound of that deep, ice-edged voice. The same voice that called me a stray farm animal less than two hours ago.

I turn in my chair.

There he is.

He’s leaning against the doorframe. He’s still in the dark suit from earlier, though the jacket is gone now. His white shirt sleeves are rolled once at the forearms, the top button undone. His hair is now slightly dishevelled.

Those sharp hazel eyes find mine immediately, locking on with an intensity that makes my stomach flip before I can stop it.

Then they drop.

His gaze drags down from my face. Over the damp, wildly untamed curls I didn’t have time to fix. Down the black ribbed tank top. Past the oversized sweatpants pooling at my ankles. All the way to the plush white crew socks stuffed into my bright pink slides.

He takes his time coming back up.

The corner of his mouth curves into something that is definitely not a smile. Something closer to a smirk.

“Who let this scumbag in?” He says, looking directly at me

The words hit the air like a slap. My mouth falls open.

Linda gasps beside me, her fork clattering against her plate, while Mrs. Whitaker’s spoon freezes inches above her soup. The entire dining room drops into an icy, breathless quiet.

I don’t flinch.

Not outwardly, at least.

My spine stays locked, fingers still curled, gripping my fork until my knuckles turn white. The my pulse is slamming against my throat.

He doesn’t move from the doorway. Just stands there, one shoulder braced against the frame, watching me the way a cat watches something it hasn’t decided whether to bat around or simply crush.

“Mr. Sullivan,” Mrs. Whitaker says from the head of the table, tone perfectly neutral. “We weren’t expecting you for dinner.”

Sullivan.

Of course.

I mentally kick myself. I hadn’t stopped to consider that a man dressed in a sharp suit, oozing wealth and authority, and bursting through the mansion’s double doors like he owned the place might actually be my boss.

Brilliant, Ruby. Absolutely brilliant.

“Ace!” Linda warns. He doesn’t look at her. His gaze stays locked on me.

She gestures towards me. “This is Ruby. She’ll be taking care of me.”

He pushes away from the doorway and enters the dining room, with that same measured, predatory grace, his expression carved from the same cold arrogance he has worn since I met him.

He stops behind the empty chair directly across from mine and rests one hand on the back of it. His eyes still on me.

For a brief, foolish second, I think he might say something.

An apology, perhaps.

He doesn’t.

He settles into the chair with the same cold composure he has carried since walking through the door, as though nothing has happened and no explanation is required.

A heavy, suffocating stillness settles over the mahogany dining table. I force my white-knuckled grip on the fork to loosen, lowering it to my plate without letting it clatter.

Mrs. Whitaker breaks the quiet first. She folds her hands neatly in her lap, looking up at him. “Should I have Marie bring out a plate for you, Ace?”

“I’m not hungry,” he says flatly.

He hasn’t taken his eyes off me. Not once. His hazel gaze remains fixed on my face, cool and analytical, tracing the flush rising on my neck with a dark, unblinking intensity. It makes my skin prickle, a sudden rush of heat pooling in my stomach that I desperately try to ignore.

My mind is racing. This infuriating man sitting directly across from me isn’t just a guest with an attitude problem, he’s the owner of the very estate I’m going to living in, and, my boss.

“You’re home early. How was the office, darling?” Linda asks, not glancing up.

Ace finally breaks his lock on my face, leaning back slightly in his chair.

“It was okay,” he says.

Linda gives him a suspicious look, but she does not press him. Instead, she turns to me.

“And how are you liking it so far, Ruby?”

The question catches me so completely off guard that I inhale at the wrong time.

I choke.

A sharp cough rips from my throat. I quickly cover my mouth with a fist, my face burning as a small coughing fit takes over.

I hastily grab my glass, taking a long, frantic gulp of ice water to clear my airway, praying for the dining room floor to open up and swallow me whole. My eyes are teary, my throat is burning and my chest is heaving.

“Oh, dear,” Linda says. “Are you all right?”

I nod quickly, taking another sip.

Across the table, Ace watches the whole humiliating performance with his arms loosely crossed. His jaw is set, his brow furrowed in a look of sheer, unadulterated irritation at the disruption. But beneath that annoyance, lurking right at the corner of his mouth, is a tiny, unmistakable flicker of dark amusement. He’s enjoying this. He likes seeing me rattled.

Linda smiles, satisfied, and turns the conversation toward something about the garden renovation, and I exhale.

Linda talks about her garden plans for the weekend. Mrs. Whitaker reviews the upcoming housekeeping schedule. Ace occasionally offers brief, dry replies when asked a direct question.

I don’t look at Ace again for the rest of the meal.

I can feel him not looking at me either, and somehow that’s louder than anything he’s said all night.

By the time we’re done, two maids enter the room with practiced efficiency, and gather the empty plates and cutlery, scurrying off back toward the kitchen before the quiet can settle again.

Mrs. Whitaker rises from her chair in one smooth motion. Linda smiles warmly, her soft gaze moving between Ace and me. “Well, I think I’m going to call it a night. It’s been a long day.” She looks directly at Ace. “Goodnight, dear.”

“Goodnight, Grandma,” Ace says softly.

I nearly do a double take. The lethal, ice-edged razor in his tone completely vanishes for that fraction of a second. His voice softens into something deep, genuinely gentle, and entirely human. It's so jarring, so starkly different from the arrogant monster sitting across from me, that I almost wonder if I imagined it.

Her eyes settle on me. “Goodnight, Ruby. I’m glad you came.”

“Goodnight, Linda.”

Linda gives a satisfied nod and begins wheeling herself toward the dining room doors.

“Miss Barkley, as Linda’s primary caregiver, night routines and evening medication would normally fall under your responsibilities starting tonight. However, considering it’s your first day and you’ve barely had time to unpack, I will handle her medication and settle her into bed myself. You may use the rest of the evening to adjust. Your official duties begin at seven sharp tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Whitaker,” I say, keeping my voice polite.

With a subtle nod toward Ace, Mrs. Whitaker turns and quietly follows Linda out.

The dining room feels suddenly vast and far too quiet. The long table stretches between us like a battlefield. Ace remains in his chair, one arm draped along the back, hazel eyes finally sliding back to me with that same unreadable intensity.

I push my chair back and stand. The scrape of wood on wood is loud in the silence.

“Running off already, stray?”

The words are soft, almost lazy, but they land like a slap. I turn, anger flaring hot and immediate in my chest. All the careful quiet I had forced myself to keep in front of Linda and Mrs. Whitaker cracks wide open.

“I didn’t dismiss you.” He adds.

My pulse is roaring in my ears.

That does it. Whatever restraint I’d been holding onto for Linda’s sake, for Mrs. Whitaker’s sake, for the sake of not getting fired on my first night, evaporates in one clean snap.

“Dismiss me?” My voice is loud, exasperated. “I don’t work for you, Mr. Sullivan. I work for your grandmother. So unless you're bleeding out somewhere or your heart's decided to quit on you, congratulations — you don't qualify as my problem tonight. My time is my own."

He rests his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers beneath his chin, entirely unfazed by the heat in my tone. “You’re under my roof.,”

“Let’s get one thing clear, Miss Barkley. You are a paid employee. You work in my house, under my roof, and on my terms. That means I decide what is expected of you, when you’re expected to do it, and how things are done here. You don’t get to decide which instructions suit you and which ones you can ignore.”

The anger in my chest is a roaring furnace, burning away any last trace of restraint.

“And let me make one thing clear to you,” I snarl, leaning down so my palms rest flat on the dark polished wood, bringing my face level with his. “You seem to be under the impression that you own everyone. Newsflash, buddy, you don’t own me. I didn’t take this job to be handled. I took it because your grandmother needed someone who actually gives a damn, and I intend to keep giving one — to her. Not to you. You can write my checks. You don’t get to write how I talk to you when you disrespect me. I don’t care how much power you think you have in this house. If you think for one second that you can intimidate me into bowing down to your bloated ego, you are dead wrong.”

For a second, the room goes completely dead silent.

Ace doesn’t raise his voice, but a dark, dangerous light flickers in his eyes. A single muscle twitches along his tight jaw. He leans in closer, stopping just inches from my face, his dark scent of cedar and faint, bitter bourbon wrapping around us.

“Careful, Ruby.” He draws out my name, slow and deliberate, the warning hidden beneath the silk of his voice. “I can destroy you.”

A shiver crawls down my spine, and I hate that my body reacts. There’s something about the way he says my name, like he’s claiming it, that makes my skin prickle. I refuse to let him see it.

“Bring your worst,” I throw back, keeping my jaw set.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of another word or a single second more of my presence. I push off the table, straighten my posture, and turn on my heel. I walk out of the dining room with my head held high, the rubber soles of my bright pink slides squeaking loudly against the polished floors.

I march down the grand hallway, scale the sweeping staircase, and don’t slow down until I reach the privacy of my bedroom. I slam the heavy oak door shut, turn the brass lock with a sharp click, and sink my back against the wood.

My heart is hammering like a trapped bird against my ribs, and my hands are shaking—not from fear, but from raw, unadulterated adrenaline. I stare across the dark, silent room and take a long, shuddering breath, the phantom scent of cedar and bourbon still lingering at the edge of my senses. The echo of his voice is still coiled low in my stomach like a threat I’m not sure I want to escape.