Francisco took a deep breath, then stepped toward Hazel with slow, deliberate movements. His voice, low and laced with intensity, broke the silence.
"How dare you talk about resigning?"
Hazel tensed under his gaze, her breath catching in her throat. She paused, then spoke carefully.
"Mr. Francisco… I'm afraid of rumors. It could damage our image. I hope you understand what I mean."
She clutched the hem of her nightie, struggling to keep her composure. Her voice trembled, but her eyes stayed steady on his.
Francisco didn't look away.
Hazel.
I remember that night. I know it was you.
The thought echoed in his mind, but before he could speak it aloud, Hazel's voice interrupted.
"Can you open the door?"
Francisco stayed silent, his expression unreadable after hearing Hazel's concerns about rumors.
With a sharp clap, the door unlocked and swung open, clearing her way without a word.
He lit a cigarette, the smoke rising in lazy curls as he pressed a button. A maid arrived almost instantly.
"Yes, master," she said with a bow.
"Give her something appropriate to wear," Francisco ordered, his eyes never leaving Hazel.
"Yes," the maid replied and turned to lead Hazel away.
Hazel avoided his gaze and followed the maid, her steps quiet but firm. The air between them remained thick, charged with tension and unspoken thoughts.
Francisco's eyes lingered on her long legs, the curve of her waist. He took a slow drag from the cigarette, exhaling deeply.
I won't let you go. Not now. Not when I've finally found you.
****
Hazel stood in another lavish room, its rich furnishings echoing the opulence of Francisco's mansion.
The maid, expressionless, opened a large closet, revealing a collection of elegant dresses.
Hazel's curiosity stirred. "Who stays here?" she asked.
"No one," the maid replied flatly.
Hazel studied her closely, something about the maid felt off. But before she could question further, the girl handed her a dress.
"And this dress?"
"That's none of your business," the maid snapped, stepping forward to help her change.
Hazel arched a brow and backed away. "What are you doing?"
"I'm helping you dress," the maid answered in a mechanical tone, continuing her approach.
Hazel held her ground. Her voice sharpened. "I can do it."
The maid paused, staring at Hazel in silence. After a moment, she turned and walked to the door. Just before leaving, she said flatly, "Please be quick. Master doesn't like to wait."
The door shut behind her with a soft click.
Hazel let out a long breath and sat on the edge of the bed. She buried her face in her hands, thoughts spiraling.
What do I do now?
For a second, I thought he figured me out.
Francisco's unwanted touch lingered in her mind, leaving a chill beneath her skin.
I can't work with him anymore.
But…
She hesitated, torn between her discomfort and her mission. After a beat, she dropped her hands and gripped the bedsheet tightly, her jaw set.
He touched me in a way he shouldn't have.
But I won't back down.
Hazel stood, crossed the room to the mirror, and stared at her reflection. Her face looked calm, but there was fire in her eyes... stronger now, sharper.
Sliding the nightie strap from her shoulder, she caught sight of the faint mark on her collarbone.
She didn't flinch.
Pulling her hair into a ponytail, Hazel got dressed.
Once ready, she looked at herself one last time.
I'm not leaving until I finish this.
With steady steps, Hazel turned toward the door and walked out.
From the second floor, Hazel watched Francisco seated at the breakfast table. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and walked down the stairs with purpose.
Francisco didn't look up. He only flicked his eyes in her direction, acknowledging her presence without a word.
Hazel stopped beside him, keeping a safe distance. Her voice was calm but edged with tension.
"Sir, thank you for everything. I need to go home now."
Francisco didn't respond. He finished a bite of bread, then slowly spread jelly on another slice—as if her words hadn't mattered.
Finally, he spoke, still focused on his plate.
"Come here."
Francisco lifted his gaze, locking eyes with Hazel. Their expressions clashed—hers firm, unshaken, ready to challenge authority. His, sharp with silent command.
"Won't you come here," he said, tapping his chin thoughtfully, "or do I need to make you?"
He crossed his legs, eyes never leaving hers.
Hazel felt the weight of his stare. After a tense pause, she stepped forward—but didn't sit beside him. Instead, she chose a chair a few feet away.
Francisco said nothing. His lips pressed into a thin line as he focused on his plate.
A maid appeared and quietly began serving Hazel, clearly acting on Francisco's silent cue. Hazel noticed—but didn't react. She kept her expression neutral, refusing to let on that she understood the silent exchange of control.
"Hazel."
Francisco's voice broke the quiet. Hazel looked up mid-chew, eyes meeting his again.