Episode2:The Boss Return's
1602 Words
Three days had passed since the night Emily Hart saw a man die.
Three long, sleepless nights in the servant’s quarters where every creak of the mansion felt like a whisper from the dark.
She scrubbed harder than ever, cleaned faster than anyone else, and kept her head down.
But no matter how much she tried to bury it, the image of Dante Cole standing over that lifeless body refused to fade.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him, calm, collected, beautiful in a way that shouldn’t exist in someone capable of pulling a trigger without flinching.
And worse, every part of her still remembered the way his breath brushed her ear when he’d said, “Next time you wander where you don’t belong, sweetheart, you won’t make it out.”
Sweetheart.
That single word had burned into her memory like a brand.
The mansion had been quieter than usual since that night. Whispers moved through the staff like smoke. Dante Cole had gone to “settle business.”
What kind of business?
No one said it out loud, but Emily had heard enough rumors to piece it together. A shipment dispute in the East End. Blood on the docks. Rivals are trying to take a slice of his empire.
London’s underworld had a new storm brewing, and Dante Cole was at its center.
By the fourth morning, the entire mansion stirred differently.
Voices rose. The air grew thick with tension. Even Mrs. Doyle seemed more frantic than usual, barking orders at the maids to polish the railings, dust the portraits, and ensure the dining hall “looked fit for a king.”
Emily knew what it meant before anyone said it.
The boss was coming home.
By evening, the mansion glowed under amber lights. Black cars lined the front courtyard, engines purring like restless beasts. Men in dark suits stood guard at the gates.
From her place in the main hall, Emily could hear it, the sharp crunch of tires on gravel, the low murmur of voices outside.
Her heart thudded painfully. She hadn’t seen him since that night. She wasn’t even sure if he remembered her. Maybe she was just another nameless maid to him, a frightened witness he’d chosen not to kill.
But part of her, the foolish, restless part, wanted to see him again. To confirm he was real. To see those eyes that had haunted her every dream.
The front doors opened.
Dante Cole stepped inside.
The air shifted instantly.
He looked different, or maybe it was that she was seeing him through the haze of memory and fear. His black coat dripped with rain, the collar turned up. There was a faint cut along his jaw, barely healed, and his knuckles were bruised. But it wasn’t the wounds that drew her in; it was the way he carried himself.
Like a king returning from war, tired, unshaken, and infinitely dangerous.
Mrs. Doyle hurried forward. “Welcome back, Mr. Cole.”
He gave a curt nod, his gaze sweeping through the hall, sharp and detached. His men followed, silent and alert, carrying cases that looked far too heavy for mere business documents.
Emily lowered her head, pretending to dust the table near the staircase, but she felt it, that sudden pull in the air, that invisible current that said he’d seen her.
Her pulse skipped.
She didn’t look up. Couldn’t. But she felt his eyes on her, sliding over her like a touch. Her breath caught when she heard his footsteps pause.
“New staff?” he asked, his voice low and edged with exhaustion.
Mrs. Doyle hesitated. “A few new maids, yes, sir. Miss Hart joined us last week.”
“Hmm.” His tone was unreadable. “I see.”
Then his steps continued up the grand staircase, each one steady, measured, echoing long after he disappeared around the corner.
Emily stood perfectly still, the feather duster trembling in her grip. Only when he was gone did she let out the breath she’d been holding.
But the scent of him, smoke, rain, and danger, lingered in the air.
That night, she couldn’t sleep.
Every time she shut her eyes, she heard his voice.
Every time she turned, she saw that flash of gray eyes catching hers in the hall.
It was madness.
He was her employer, worse, a man capable of unimaginable violence. And she was nothing more than a maid who’d stumbled into his world by mistake.
Still, something inside her twisted with each thought of him. Not fear. Not entirely. Something darker. Something that felt like falling.
By morning, the mansion was alive again. Orders flew from every corner, meals to be prepared, guests to be expected, security doubled. Dante Cole had returned, and the world around him had to orbit his command.
Emily did her best to blend in, avoiding eye contact, keeping to her duties in the east wing.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
She was polishing the windows near the main hall when she heard his voice again.
“Mrs. Doyle, bring me the reports from the week I was gone. And send someone to clean the study. The others are busy, I don’t care who.”
Mrs. Doyle’s eyes swept the room and landed on Emily.
“Miss Hart,” she said sharply. “You heard Mr. Cole. Go.”
Emily froze. “The study?”
“Yes. Now.”
Her stomach dropped. The study. The room where she’d seen him kill a man.
For a moment, she thought of refusing. But the words caught in her throat.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She walked toward the west wing, her hands clammy. The corridor was silent, the air thick with memory. When she reached the study door, she hesitated before knocking.
“Come in.”
His voice.
Calm. Commanding.
She pushed the door open slowly.
The room was exactly as she remembered, dim light, shelves lined with old books, the faint scent of whiskey and smoke. Dante sat behind the desk, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled, head bent over papers.
For a moment, he didn’t look up.
Emily stepped inside quietly, clutching her cleaning rag. “ I’m here to clean, sir.”
“Go ahead.”
His tone was indifferent, but his eyes lifted after a few seconds, locking on her face.
Emily’s breath caught.
He studied her silently, and she could feel it, the weight of his gaze, tracing every inch of her like he was trying to place a memory.
She turned away, pretending to dust the shelves. Her hands shook slightly, but she forced them steady.
Minutes passed in silence. The sound of her rag brushing against wood, the faint scratch of his pen. Then his voice, quiet but clear,
“You’re not afraid of me.”
She froze. “I… I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He stood, moving around the desk. His footsteps were slow, deliberate. Emily’s pulse hammered as she kept her eyes on the floor.
“Everyone flinches when I walk into a room,” he said softly. “You don’t.”
“I just… try to do my job, sir.”
“Hmm.” His voice brushed against her like smoke. “And the night you wandered into my corridor, were you just doing your job then, too?”
Her throat went dry.
She turned, her heart in her eyes. “I didn’t mean to…”
“I know,” he interrupted, his gaze locking on hers. “If you had, you wouldn’t be standing here.”
The truth in his words sent a chill down her spine. Yet, even as fear curled in her stomach, another feeling, one she couldn’t name, rose to the surface.
He took a step closer. She didn’t move.
“Tell me something, Emily Hart,” he murmured, her name sounding dangerous in his mouth. “When you look at me, what do you see?”
She swallowed hard. “A man who doesn’t like to be questioned.”
A slow smile curved his lips, the first she’d ever seen. It wasn’t kind. It was sharper, darker.
“Smart answer.”
He turned back to his desk, as if dismissing her. “Finish cleaning. Then leave.”
She nodded quickly, trying to steady her breathing as she wiped the last of the dust. When she finally turned to leave, his voice stopped her at the door.
“Emily.”
She glanced back.
His eyes, unreadable as storm clouds, met hers.
“If you value your life,” he said softly, “don’t ever be where I can’t protect you.”
Her breath caught. “Protect me?”
“Go.”
She obeyed, stepping out into the hall with her heart pounding.
Later, as she walked through the garden under a gray London sky, her thoughts spiraled.
He’d said he would protect her. Why? From who?
And what did it mean that a man like Dante Cole even cared enough to warn her?
She didn’t have the answers, only the memory of his eyes, his voice, and the feeling that she had just stepped deeper into something far more dangerous than she could ever imagine.
Behind the mansion’s windows, Dante watched her leave the garden, a glass of whiskey in hand. His jaw tightened.
He should’ve fired her.
He should’ve never let her live after what she saw.
But instead, he found himself thinking of her, the trembling maid with fire in her eyes.
And for the first time in years, Dante Cole felt something he couldn't control.
- Writer
