William's POV
I sat back, spine pressed into the cool leather of my chair, arms resting loosely on the armrests like a king surveying his kingdom.
The only light in the surveillance room came from the flickering glow of the screens in front of me dozens of feeds blinking, shifting, catching every detail of my empire in motion. But my eyes were locked on just one, the one in my penthouse.
Morgan stood in the center of my penthouse like a lost bird, small and solitary.
On the screen, I watched her fingers twitch against her thigh, tap, tap, tap a nervous rhythm betraying her mask of control.
Then, suddenly, she stopped and reached for the hem of her dress, tugging it slightly as if trying to shield herself, trying to be smaller.
Her shoulders lifted as she took a breath. Slow. Hesitant. Her lips trembled at the exhale.
She was exhausted. I could see it in her posture, the way she leaned slightly to one side as though her body no longer trusted itself to stay upright.
I knew her shift had ended more than an hour ago. She should've been home, asleep, curled up in the secondhand bed she could barely afford.
But instead, she was here. Right where I wanted her.
My expression stayed unreadable, my face bathed in the cold blue light of the monitors. But inside, I was brimming.
"I've been waiting for this day for three months now," I murmured, voice low and sure, "and finally... it's here."
I reached for the controls and turned the volume knob slowly, deliberately.
I wanted to hear it all, every shuffle of her feet, every unsteady breath, every heartbeat if the system was sensitive enough to pick it up.
I didn't want to miss a single sound.
My mind drifted back to the night everything began.
The charity gala. A façade of grace and wealth for the elite.
Crystal chandeliers throwing fractured light across glittering gowns and tailored suits. Tables lined with overpriced champagne and hollow laughter.
I'd stood in the shadows, watching. Always watching. It's what I do best. And then, she walked in, through the kitchen door with a tray of glasses in her hands.
She was a server, dressed in a plain black uniform with tired shoes and a weary smile.
She weaved quietly between guests, invisible to most, until she paused beside a table where a child sat trembling in a hospital gown.
I watched her kneel, gently lifting a spoon to his lips. Her voice was soft, her patience unshakable.
The child pushed her, knocked over his drink. She didn't scold him. She smiled. Not the kind of smile people put on for appearances, but something... real. Genuine.
I signaled to my security with the slightest twitch of my finger. He approached swiftly.
"Find out everything about her," I ordered. "I want the report on my desk by morning."
I paused, then added without looking at him, "And do it quietly."
And he did. By 8 AM the next day, her entire life was laid bare before me.
Morgan Devon.
Twenty-three years old. Only child. Her mother, terminally ill.
Morgan was juggling two jobs nursing student by day, server by night.
Her debts were a mountain: three eviction notices, credit cards bleeding red.
Her world was teetering on the edge. One gust and it would all collapse.
It made me smile.
Not because I enjoyed her suffering. But because I understood it.
Desperation is power when it's in the right hands. I had found my leverage.
Over the next few weeks, I had her followed. Discreetly.
I built a dossier as intimate as a lover's memory photos of her crying in a laundromat when she thought no one saw, footage of her praying silently on a crowded bus, clinging to hope.
Her strength wasn't loud, but it was there in her quiet persistence, in the way she chose survival every day.
I ran a finger along one of the photos on my desk her face streaked with tears, lips pressed tightly to keep from sobbing aloud. She thought she was alone.
She never was, I made sure she was always followed.
"People make poor decisions under pressure," I said to myself, voice calm as I traced the curve of her face in the picture. "And she's right where I need her."
Back on the screen, she was shifting from foot to foot now, anxiety dripping from every movement.
She'd been standing there for nearly an hour. Still hadn't left.
That told me everything I needed to know she was desperate.
She thought she was here for charity, probably believed some anonymous donor wanted to help.
But no. This wasn't mercy. It was a test.
I knew her mother's treatment would be paused if she didn't make a payment by next week.
Forty-seven thousand dollars. A price she couldn't pay. Not legally and that's were I come in.
I stood, slow and deliberate. Smoothed my suit, adjusted my cufflinks.
Then I walked toward my penthouse suite the one she waited in like a lamb in a wolf's den.
The door opened with a soft click. She turned instantly.
"Mr. Vale." She gasped, her eyes wide, lips parting in surprise.
There it was. That look. I'd seen it countless times, fear, awe, curiosity.
But with her, it struck differently. Maybe because I already knew her.
Knew the sound of her voice, the slope of her shoulders when she cried, the way she hid her strength beneath layers of politeness and duty.
"Morgan Devon," I said, letting her name curl on my tongue like smoke.
I watched her swallow hard, saw the sheen of sweat shimmer on her brow.
The room was cold, the air conditioner humming, and yet she was sweating.
"There's no reason to be nervous," I said, gesturing casually. "Sit down."
She didn't move. Her legs locked in place, like prey sensing the predator too late.
I didn't repeat myself. I simply walked to the armchair across from her, unbuttoned my suit jacket, and sat.
Still, she remained standing. Her hands clenched in front of her, her mouth pressed into a line.
She looked like someone caught between shame and fear, like she'd stumbled into a room she had no business entering.
I raised a brow and waited, finally, she moved. Stiff, uncertain.
She lowered herself onto the edge of the couch, barely touching it, as if ready to spring to her feet again.