Ruthless (Empire of Hearts #1)

Chapter 1

Sarah

Murphy’s Law should come with a warning label; something like: Caution, life will find increasingly creative ways to screw you over, especially when you’re running on fumes and bad coffee.

Case in point: the subway.

It wasn’t a dramatic failure—no sparks, no screaming—just a quiet mechanical death that trapped me underground for thirty minutes while my phone buzzed itself into a panic. I watched the minutes tick past my session start and thought about all the ways Hector Valdez might fire me.

Because Hector Valdez did not tolerate lateness. I knew this the same way I knew loan sharks didn’t accept IOUs and coffee didn’t count as breakfast. Some lessons you learn fast when your life depends on it.

My sneakers hit the pavement at a run, the left sole flapping loose enough that every step felt like a small betrayal.

Sweat clung to the back of my neck despite the April chill.

My bag kept sliding off my shoulder, threatening to spill my therapy notes all over Fifth Avenue like some kind of disaster.

Thirty minutes late. Thirty whole minutes to a man who probably fired people for being five minutes late.

The doorman waved me through without a single question. We had an understanding by now: I was the girl who showed up three times a week looking progressively more exhausted, and he was the guy who pretended not to notice.

I twisted my mother’s ring as the elevator climbed.

The silver was warm from my skin, worn smooth from years of nervous fidgeting.

She gave it to me before the cancer took her—back when I still believed hard work got you somewhere.

That belief died around the same time my estranged father did, and loan sharks started leaving notes on my door, but I kept the ring.

Sentimental and stupid, probably, but it was mine.

Six months ago, I was serving overpriced pasta to people who treated waitstaff like decorative furniture.

Now I worked in a penthouse for a brooding man, trying to help a little girl find her voice again.

The jump from there to here still didn’t make sense, but then again, nothing about my life made sense anymore.

The elevator doors opened.

Marble floors stretched out before me, polished to such an absurd shine I could see my reflection. My jacket was wrinkled from the subway crush, braids pulled into a low bun, sneakers that had seen better days but were clean at least. I looked exactly like what I was.

Six months in this penthouse, and I still felt the gap between their world and mine.

“He wants to see you first,” Gianna, the housekeeper’s daughter, said the moment I walked in.

My stomach dropped. “Is Lily okay?”

“She’s fine. Waiting in the therapy room.”

Gianna is amazing. Over the course of my time here, I realized that she’s loud and warm in the best possible way, completely incapable of keeping anything to herself.

Today she only gave me a worried smile, as if she already knew I was in trouble.

“Great,” I muttered. “That’s just fantastic.”

She vanished before I could extract any useful information, leaving me alone in the oppressive quiet.

The penthouse was always too quiet—no music, no normal sounds of actual human life.

Just expensive silence and my footsteps echoing off surfaces too perfect to be real.

It felt like walking through a museum after hours—except the museum was someone’s home, and that someone could fire me for breathing wrong.

I headed toward Hector’s office, running through possible explanations that didn’t sound completely inadequate.

“The subway broke down” wouldn’t cut it.

He probably thought people who relied on public transportation were fundamentally bad at planning.

He owned multiple cars and had drivers who ensured he never had to worry about mechanical failures or delays.

My story wasn’t Cinderella, despite what it might look like from the outside.

I’d figured that out within my first week.

Hector Valdez was no Prince Charming. He was cold and controlled and looked at people like they were either useful or obstacles.

The only reason I was still employed was because his daughter liked me, and he’d apparently do anything for her.

Including tolerating my obviously lower tax bracket and my secondhand everything.

His office door loomed ahead. I stopped in front of it and took a breath, steadying myself. Preparing for whatever was coming.

I knocked once, sharp and professional.

“Come.”

One word. That was all he ever needed. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Hector stood behind his desk like he’d been positioned there by design.

He had a coffee cup in one hand, and he looked like he’d been awake since dawn and had already accomplished more than I would all month.

He had a dark sweater that fit him perfectly, sleeves pushed up to his forearms in a way that managed to look both casual and completely put together.

Not a hair out of place. Not a paper out of order.

Everything about him screamed control and competence.

He looked at me the same way he had that first night at the restaurant—assessing, deciding whether I was worth the investment or just another disappointment waiting to happen.

Today, his expression said disappointment was winning.

My brain did that annoying thing where it dragged me back six months without permission. To the first day I met Hector Valdez.

I’d been pulling a double at Aurelio’s—this upscale Italian place in Midtown where businessmen took clients to impress them and tourists came to pretend they could afford the wine list. My feet hurt. My back ached. But the tips were decent, and decent was infinitely better than drowning.

Then I saw them.

A man and a little girl sat at a corner table. Pink balloons were tied to her chair, and a cupcake sat in front of her with a single candle, wax already dripping down the frosting. Everything about the setup implied a birthday celebration.

But the little girl sat completely frozen, staring at the candle flame like it might leap off the cake and burn her.

The expression on her face stabbed something sharp into my chest. I’d seen that exact look before, on Colin, back when his stutter was so severe he couldn’t order food without other kids laughing.

The man sitting across from her looked completely lost. He kept glancing at his daughter, then at the cupcake, then back at his daughter like he was waiting for something that clearly wasn’t coming.

The birthday song started playing over the speakers—the generic instrumental version restaurants use so staff don’t actually have to sing. I watched Maria, another server, walk right past their table without stopping. Not her problem. Not her job to fix sad rich kids.

I should have done the same, delivered my carbonara to table seven, collected my tip, and gone home.

Instead, my feet carried me straight to their table.

I knelt beside the girl’s chair, lowering myself to her eye level. She looked at me with these huge, wary eyes. Not scared exactly. Just careful.

I started singing. Not loud or performative like we usually did for birthday tables when clients requested it. I sang simply, the same way I used to sing to Colin when his stutter got so bad he’d come home crying.

The girl watched me the entire time. I felt her father watching too, but I kept my focus on her.

When I reached the last line, something happened.

“Hurray,” she whispered.

I smiled at her and ruffled her hair gently, the way I used to do with Colin when he finally got a sentence out without stuttering. She didn’t pull away.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” I said as I stood.

The father stared at me like I’d just performed literal magic. I gave him a quick smile and moved on to my next table, already half forgetting about it.

My shift ended at eleven. I was tired but satisfied with the night’s tips. I grabbed my jacket from the break room and headed for the exit, already planning my subway route home.

The man was waiting by the door.

Not creepy waiting. Not blocking my path or doing anything threatening. Up close, he looked older than I’d initially thought. Mid-thirties, maybe.

“That thing you did,” he said. His voice carried an accent I couldn’t quite place. Spanish, maybe, or Portuguese. “With my daughter. Where did you learn that?”

I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, confused. “Learn what? Singing happy birthday?”

“The way you approached her.” His eyes were dark and intense, studying me like I was a puzzle he desperately needed to solve. “Most people make it worse.”

"I work with kids sometimes," I said carefully, not sure where this was going. "I'm studying speech-language pathology."

Something changed in his face. Interest, sharp and immediate. "You're licensed?"

"Not yet. I finished my master's, but I'm still in my clinical fellowship year." I trailed off, heat creeping up my neck. "Once I finish my supervised hours, I can sit for the Praxis and apply for my CCC-SLP."

He looked at me blankly.

"National exam, then certification," I translated. "I'm almost there. Just not quite."

He went quiet for a long moment. Just looked at me with this intensity that made me want to fidget. Like he was checking out every detail, weighing and measuring something I couldn’t see.

“I’d like to hire you,” he said at last.

I blinked. “As a waitress? I already work here.”

“As a therapist. For my daughter.” He met my gaze, determined. “I’ve hired specialists. None of them could reach her. You sang a birthday song and she spoke. She hasn’t done that in a while.”

I twisted my ring, thinking hard. The offer was too good. Way too good. People didn’t just throw money at uncertified strangers because their kid said one word. This had to be a scam or a trap or something I wasn’t seeing.

But then I thought about my brother Colin’s scholarship that only covered tuition, not housing or books or food. Thought about the loan sharks who kept showing up no matter how much I paid, their threats getting progressively less subtle.

“What’s your daughter’s name?” I asked instead.

“Lily.”

“And yours?”

“Hector. Hector Valdez.”

The name meant absolutely nothing to me then. I didn’t know about his restaurant empire or his Michelin stars or the fact that he was one of Manhattan’s most successful self-made businessmen. I just knew he looked desperate and exhausted and like he’d pay anything to hear his daughter speak again.

“I’ll pay you well,” he continued. “More than fairly. Whatever it takes.”

My brain tried to process that. Tried to find the inevitable catch, because there was always a catch. “Why me? I’m not even certified yet. You could hire someone with actual credentials.”

“Because she spoke to you.” His expression turned fierce. Protective. The look of a father who’d do absolutely anything for his child. “So yes, Ms…?”

“Tinsley. Sarah Tinsley.”

“Ms. Tinsley, I want to hire you. Results matter more than paperwork.”

The offer stood between us—glittering and dangerous, too good to be true and too good to refuse.

“Okay,” I heard myself say. “I’ll try.”

I should have asked more questions. Should have gotten details in writing and been smarter about the entire situation.

Instead, I took his business card and showed up three days later to discover I’d accidentally agreed to work for a billionaire.

The memory faded as I stood in Hector’s office six months later, a broken subway as my excuse and my job probably hanging by a thread.

He looked at me with that same sharp expression. Deciding my fate.

“You’re late,” he said.