Lavender and old paper funk.That was the scent that clung to the walls of St. Marianne’s Elder Home. It was a weird scent; one that no one asked for; not even Harper. The light blinked again. Faint. Buzzing. Harper didn’t look up. She just sat there, holding her mom’s hand. It was still warm. Just barely. Felt like something slipping, like maybe her body was already halfway gone, just hadn’t let go yet. Harper’s thumb moved, slow, over the back of her hand. She didn’t say anything. What was there to say?

Her mother, Josephine Quinn, once a respected literature teacher with a laugh that could carry through the corridor of any school, now lay sunken beneath the pale covers. Her voice had become a whisper these days, but her eyes; those deep brown, thoughtful eyes; still burned with something Harper knew was love. Love for her.

"You wore the pink lipstick," Josephine said with a tired smile. "That one always made your lips look like rose petals."

Harper blinked fast,there was no way she was gonna cry now. “It’s for you, Mama. Always.”

The oxygen machine kept going, soft, steady.

That was all you could hear.

Harper bent down. Pulled the blanket up. Her mom looked... smaller somehow. She brushed a bit of hair away, that grey bit that always curled wrong. Didn’t say anything. Just swallowed. ALS had taken almost everything—her voice, her movement. But not her. Not the part that fought.

“Why does this feel like goodbye?” Josephine whispered.

It hit Harper in the gut but she had to play cool. “I have to go, Ma It’s a new case. The Bureau’s sending me to Seattle.”

Her mother’s lips twitched with a weak smile. “You never could resist trouble, huh?

““I don’t want to leave you.”

“But you have to.”

“I’ll call. Every night. I promise”

Josephine looked her dead in the eye. “You’re the best damn agent they’ve got. That’s why they picked you. Just don’t let them take everything. Keep a little Harper for yourself, okay?”

Harper nodded. “I will.”

Josephine’s fingers squeezed hers. “Your father would’ve said… don’t fall for the suspect.”

Harper snorted, but her heart twisted anyway. Dad had died on the job. FBI analyst, wrong place, wrong time. She’d joined up after, hellbent on finishing what he started.

She’d climbed the ranks fast, not because she was hot

though, yeah, she had the legs and those wild, dark eyes

, but because her brain was scary good. She could spot patterns in chaos, blend in anywhere, be invisible or magnetic depending on what the job needed. Men underestimated her. Women got her. She was the secret in the room.

And now? she was being sent to infiltrate one of the most powerful, dangerous men in tech.

Dominic Blake.

CEO. Billionaire. Suspected money launderer. Publicly darling. Privately nightmare.

The Bureau of Financial Crimes had tried and failed to penetrate his empire for years. Now? It’s Harper’s turn.

“Just a maid,” she told herself, over and over. “Just a maid.”

Truth? She was the scariest thing Dominic Blake was ever gonna let through his front door.

She kissed her mother’s forehead and stood up to go.

Josephine's voice cracked one final time before Harper turned away. “Be careful. Men like him… don’t just wreck cases. They ruin hearts.”

Baltimore faded in the rear-view, all gray and watercolors in the rain. Seattle wasn’t any sunnier; she landed after dark, clouds like a wet blanket. That Pacific air, sharp and clean, made her shiver.

Harper rented a Bureau-approved car, tossed her duffer in the back, and started the two-hour drive to the outskirts of the city. Two hours to the middle of nowhere. Dominic Blake’s so-called “house”, more like a Bond villain’s lair, was perched on top of a forested cliff, shrouded in pine and fog. Neighbors? Nope. Paparazzi? Dream on. Just a lot of shadows.

About ten minutes out, Harper’s hands clenched the steering wheel tighter. Rain hammered the windshield now, blurring the road until it was just a mess of gray and light. Her heart pounded. She hated driving in storms. Her phone buzzed with a new message from Lily Hart, her best friend and field handler:

LILY: Confirm arrival. Do not be nervous or weird in front of him. Stick to the plan.

Harper didn’t reply. She was about to text back when—

A figure appeared.

Right in front of her car.

“Shit!” she screamed, yanking the wheel. Her tires screeched across the wet ground. Her phone flew to the floor. She braced—

THUMP.

The car hit something—or someone.

Everything slowed.

Her heart pounded, loud and uneven.

Rain slammed down as she stumbled outside, heels slipping hard.

She covered her mouth with one hand, eyes locked on the man lying there, blood pooling fast.

Harper hit her knees.

Her fingers shook. “Sir? Can you hear me?”

No response. Then she saw it; his car just ahead, leaking fuel. Sparks spit from underneath. She froze. Then moved. No time to think.

She hauled him backward, legs slipping, arms straining. Her muscles screamed. Her jeans clung, soaked and heavy.

Just as they reached the grass, his car exploded behind them.

The blast knocked her forward. She covered the man’s head as fire bursted out behind her.

Sirens screamed in the distance.

Rain poured.

By the time paramedics arrived, Harper was shaking uncontrollably.

“You okay?” one of them asked.

“I think I hit him,” she said, voice hollow.

“You sure you don’t need to be checked?”

She shook her head. “I have to get to work.”

The paramedic just stared at her, one eyebrow way up. “What kinda job makes you leave the scene of an explosion?” Harper stood, slow and stiff. “The kind I’ve been trained for.”

Thirty minutes late and smelling like smoke, Harper stood in front of Blake Manor’s towering iron gates. A security camera blinked, like it had a lot to say. A voice crackled from a hidden speaker.

“Name.”

“Harper Quinn.”

Pause.

The gates opened.

She walked, slow and steady, up the gravel path. The house—part mansion, part something colder, waited at the top like it had been watching. Black steel. Shiny glass. Too clean.

The smell in the air was damp bark, wet leaves.

Then the door swung open. No knock, no bell.

A woman stepped out. Tall. Older. Her braid was silver, long, a little frayed at the ends. Her eyes didn’t smile.

Mrs. Greta Ames.

Housekeeper. Loyal. Feared.

“You’re late,” she said, eyeing Harper’s soaked clothes.

“There was an accident—”

“Mr. Blake doesn’t tolerate excuses.”

Harper nodded. There was no point, arguing. “Understood.”

She followed Mrs. Ames inside. The floors gleamed. Every hallway was silent. The mansion felt less like a home and more like a museum of secrets.

Then he appeared.

Dominic Blake.

He came down the stairs—slow, like the ground belonged to him.

Tall, maybe six-one. Not bulky, just solid. Moved like he didn’t care who was watching but knew they were.

Ink slid out from under his sleeves, not bold, just there—woven into muscle like it had always been part of him.

Skin the color of sunlit bronze. Jaw sharp, clean-shaven. No softness in the way he held still.

And those gray eyes—sharp, still, and fixed right on her

“You’re late,” he said softly.

Harper swallowed. “There was a—”

He held up one hand. “No excuses.”

She fell silent.

His eyes swept over her like he was scanning for weaknesses. She felt exposed—hair wet, uniform sticking to her skin, mascara probably halfway down her cheeks.

“You will report at five a.m. to Mrs. Ames,” he said. “You speak when spoken to. You clean what you’re told. You do not enter the west wing. Ever.”

Harper nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He handed her a badge. Her name and photo. Harper Quinn. Housekeeper.

He said nothing more before walking away.

Mrs. Ames led her to a small room near the kitchen. The walls were bare. The bed, stiff and narrow. Not warm. Not cozy. Just enough. Harper sat down hard. She didn’t mean to, but her legs gave out. Her clothes were still wet.

She reached into her bag and tucked the flash drive into her hairbrush. It had a hollow spot. Everything had a trick—lipstick with a lens, a duster that held more than dust.

She wasn’t just a maid.

She was a weapon.

Soft. Steady. Tap. Tap. Tap.

She padded into the hallway, no shoes, every step too loud in the quiet. Her heart beat faster. Something was off; she couldn’t tell what. Up ahead, the west wing door waited. Heavy black wood. Gold handle.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

She touched the knob.

It turned.

The door creaked open.

Heat spilled out.

Inside, screens glowed. Machines hummed. Charts, wires, blinking lights. The room felt… alive.

“What the hell…” she whispered.

“I told you never to enter that door.”

Harper spun around.

Dominic stood in the doorway, shirt half-unbuttoned, tattoos running from his neck to his abdomen. His face was unreadable, with his jaw clenched.

“I—I heard something.”

“You disobeyed me.”

She felt herself grow smaller under his cold stare.

Mrs. Ames emerged from the shadows like a ghost. “Mr. Blake gives very few warnings, Miss Quinn. Don’t waste yours.”

“I wasn’t—” Harper began.

“Go back to your room,” Dominic said.

Harper gave a slight nod and walked off, her eyes darting up in silent protest.

In her room, she fell on her bed, her heart still racing. She stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, then at her brush. The flash drive was still in there, tucked deep beneath the bristles.

Her phone buzzed.

A message from Lily.

LILY: New update. We traced a $4.2 million wash through offshore shell corps. All linked to Blake. Source seems to be the west wing. Be careful. You’re inside the lion’s den now.

Harper swallowed hard.

She wasn’t ready.

But tomorrow… she’d have to be.

Author’s Note:

Thank you for diving into Chapter One of Hired to Break Him!
Harper’s story is just getting started, and trust me—things are about to get a lot more intense.

If you enjoyed this chapter, please unlock the next one and support the story by subscribing as a VIP reader. Your support helps me keep writing, and every coin goes a long way toward bringing this world to life!

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Until the next chapter...
– Lizette Rosale