Sweet Romance11 min read
I Broke Into a Mansion and Accidentally Adopted a Little Puppy
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"I pushed the heavy basement door open."
The dark smelled like old stone and cold metal. I kept my voice low.
"Show me the layout," I said into my earpiece.
"Left hall, second door," Simon said. His voice was steady. "Two guards upstairs. Slow and quiet."
I moved like a shadow. The picture on my phone matched the mansion exactly. The message under it had been simple: Evidence in the basement panel.
I pressed my fingers to the wall until a section popped out and a tiny drawer slid free. A folded envelope sat inside.
"Got it," I whispered.
"Copy. Get out," Simon said.
I stuffed the envelope in my jacket, turned, and froze.
A man stood in the far corner. He had white hair and a cane. He did not look surprised.
"Gerard," I said, because I knew who he was.
He slammed his cane on the floor. "India Gardner. What do you want in my house?"
"You'll forgive my manners," I said. "I'm here for the evidence. The drawer told me so."
He sniffed. "We keep the basement. Leave."
I stepped forward. "You forget I can do more than break locks. I can make people sleep."
He blinked, and his face went pale. He pointed at me and his hands trembled.
"Stupid," I said under my breath, but my fingers were steady. I moved deeper into the shadow.
Something near the corner rustled. A body sat bound in the dark, a young man with thin shoulders and a pale face. His eyes were wide and wet.
"Say what you saw," I demanded, crouching.
"My name is Declan Cornelius," he said in a small voice. "I didn't do anything. They brought me here."
"Who?" I asked.
He swallowed. "They said my name, then took me. I don't know."
"You're not a spy?" I asked, testing.
"No," he said. His voice was honest enough that I felt a strange tug in my chest.
I freed his bonds. His hands were cold. As soon as he could stand, he leaned on me with a weight I did not expect.
"Why are you crying?" I asked.
He looked up at me like I should know. "Because you came."
His gratitude made me angry at myself for softening.
"Stay quiet," I ordered. "We leave now."
Outside, Simon waited with the car. Simon looked me over and then at Declan.
"Who is he?" Simon asked.
"I don't know," I answered. "He called me 'sister' in a way."
"That's a problem," Simon said. He had always been blunt.
Declan clung to my sleeve like a child. "Don't leave me," he said.
I closed my eyes. "Fine. You get one night under my roof," I said. "One night."
He smiled like the world had changed.
"India," Simon said after we drove away. "You brought back a loose end."
"I brought back evidence," I said. "And a person. Keep quiet."
Declan's voice in the back seat was soft. "Thank you. I won't be a burden."
"You will be quiet," I said, and I meant it.
We arrived at the house I had taken back months ago: a place bought and held for reasons only I understood. The luxury annoys me. I walked through the rooms without touching anything.
"Second floor, left room. Right next to mine," I said. "Speak only if I ask."
He nodded like a puppy. He was twenty, fragile, and shining with a trust I had not earned.
"You're messy," I told him, handing him clothes. "Try them. They keep the house warm."
He looked down at the clothes like they were treasure. "Thank you," he whispered.
"Don't make a sound when you come down," I added. "I work in odd hours."
He looked up at me. "You work?" he asked, with a child's curiosity.
"Many things," I said. "Tonight you sleep. Tomorrow you learn rules."
He obeyed. He always obeyed.
The next morning, he made breakfast. He was clumsy but earnest. He set a bowl of simple porridge in front of me.
"Eat," he said. "I learned quick."
I watched him. He hummed while he stirred. I did not like humming. But I let him keep going.
"Why do you call me 'sister'?" I asked finally.
He looked at me, cheeks pinking. "My mother read me old photos. She said you were... she said you looked like someone she once saw. I don't know why. I just felt safe."
"Names are dangerous," I said. "Don't tell people where you came from."
"I won't," he said. "I promise."
He did not keep secrets well. That did not matter. I did not know why it mattered that I felt the odd need to protect him.
Over the next days he claimed the house as if he had lived here for months. He wore the clothes I had bought, used the spoon I had chosen, and called me for small things.
"India," he said one night. "Your music—why do you write alone?"
I paused at the top of the stairs. "Because music listens," I said.
He took it literally. "Teach me," he asked.
"No," I said first. "You are young. You have no patience."
"Please," he begged. "I will learn."
I went with him to the piano. He had a good ear. He sang like a clear bell—Jack's baritone from my notes many years ago echoed in memory.
"Declan, you have a voice," I said. "It's clean. If you worked it, you'd be dangerous."
He winked like a boy. "Dangerous to whom?"
"People who try to hurt you," I answered.
We started small. I wrote a short melody, he sang. His voice fit my lines. I sent a file to a young manager friend, Wade, and then to Jack Nguyen—Jack's voice had once needed me, and I knew he would welcome a new song.
Jack called within an hour. "India?" his voice was bright. "Give me that song."
"Not yet," I said. "I want him to sing two songs. He needs a break and a plan."
"Who is the boy?" Jack asked.
"A guest," I said.
"Don't let him be trouble." Jack's concern was genuine.
I didn't tell Jack everything. I did not tell Wade everything either. I had reasons to keep my life closed.
That same week, a message appeared in my inbox: a scanned contract with two names—Gerard Frank and Colton Hayes. The contract spoke of deals to take over a company, written in cold legal language. The name tied to Declan's family was on the page.
"Declan's father," I muttered.
Declan later found the paper in my hand and read. He paled.
"My name is in this?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "You were taken because of that contract."
"Then I'm in danger," he said, small and fierce at once.
"Yes."
He did not run. He put a hand on my sleeve.
"You will keep me safe?" he asked.
"I will," I said.
Men started watching the mansion. A car idled across the street. Shadows moved near my fence. Once I caught a man photographing the house. I left a note in his windshield: the words on the paper were careful and empty. He drove away.
"Someone's probing," I told Simon.
"Colton's men." Simon's face hardened. "He will act if he thinks you have the contract."
"If he comes for evidence," I said, "I will make him regret it."
"Promise me one thing," Simon said. "Don't get close."
"I always act alone," I said. I meant it, mostly.
But Declan learned to bring me tea when I stayed up late. He hummed the melody while he brewed. He left a note on my desk in childish handwriting.
"India: Don't forget the chorus."
Those small things unspooled the wrong kind of warmth in me.
One night, after a long session rewriting a bridge for Jack's song, I kissed him because he smelled of cold air and honest fear. It was quick and absurd, but when I pulled back, his eyes were wide and bright like sunrise.
"You taste like smoke and sugar," he said, his voice raw.
"You are ridiculous," I answered.
"Will you keep me?" he asked.
I did not answer.
The man everyone expected to be the target—Colton Hayes—moved publicly like a proper titan. He smiled at charity dinners. He spread money like guests hand out napkins. He had a neat public face. His private face was someone I had seen in my nightmares.
Colton's men sent messages. Gerard tried to find me in the city. Once, Gerard approached a boutique where we shopped and called my name.
"You shouldn't be in my sight," Gerard said.
"I already left," I answered.
"One day you will be old," he said. "You will be tired."
"I don't grow tired of finishing things," I said.
Declan listened from the car two blocks away, tense. He gripped my hand until it hurt.
"Why do you come after me?" I asked him one night.
"For you," he said simply. "Because you saved me."
That simplicity scared me more than any lie. He saw me differently than I saw myself.
I began to plan a show, not the music show—the bait. Jack would release the melody. The public would be the stage. Contracts could not float in the dark when the whole world watched.
"You're making a public stage on purpose," Wade said. "This will be messy."
"I will control the timing," I said.
"Public humiliation will hurt people," Wade warned.
"It will hurt the ones who deserve to be hurt," I said.
We scheduled a private launch for industry insiders. The room would be full—managers, press, those who trade in power.
On the night, I sat at the piano in a simple black dress. Declan stood by the side, hands clenched, as if he feared to drop me. Jack tuned his mic and gave me a small nod.
"Play," he said.
I played. The song unfurled like a small knife—clear, precise. Jack sang, and his voice carried secrets. Halfway through, the lights dimmed and a screen flicked on behind us.
Evidence slid across the screen: emails, pages of contract, a recorded call of Gerard arranging the kidnapping with someone calling from Colton's number.
A hush fell.
"That is Gerard Frank negotiating with Colton Hayes to strip Declan Cornelius's company," I said, voice calm. "They conspired to kidnap a young man and hold him as leverage."
Gasps, murmurs. Phones came up. Cameras flashed.
Gerard's face went from composed to thin and white. He laughed once, a dry sound. "This is impossible."
"Gerard, you signed that with a black pen," I said. "You gave the copy to Colton. The contract names you."
He stood up suddenly. "You're insane! You think you can ruin me with a song?"
"Not a song," I said. "Your own words."
Colton looked at me from the crowd. He smiled like a man ready for applause. "India, what game is this? You make accusations with music?"
I stepped forward. "You used a contract to steal a company. You arranged a kidnapping. We have witnesses."
The press smelled it as blood. Phones recorded everything. A manager from Declan's side had already alerted the authorities. Gerard's security moved to his side, but it was too late. A detective in the room rose and said, "We have probable cause. We'll take statements."
Gerard's face changed as if someone had peeled his skin away. He tried to deny. "This is a setup! I never—"
"Your calls are logged," I said. "You cannot deny your voice."
People in the room drew back like thieves exposed. Colton's smile cracked.
Declan stood still, as if he had watched his life pass like film. Then he stepped forward and took my hand.
"You didn't have to put me on stage," he said, voice shaking yet steady. "You didn't have to risk this for me."
"You gave me no choice," I said.
The crowd recorded Gerard's face as his allies distanced themselves. Within hours the story flooded the feeds. Gerard's philanthropic pages were blanked. Colton's partners called to cut ties.
The fall was not instant but it was real. Banks froze transactions tied to Gerard. Colton was forced to answer questions. Business partners abandoned them, and their power shrank like a drained balloon.
Declan sat beside me later, hands trembling.
"What happens now?" he asked.
"They will fight back," I said. "But the evidence is in the open."
Days later, someone tried to force entry to the house. I found a man rifling through the garden. He tried to run. I grabbed his sleeve and held him until the police took him away. He came with a card with Colton's mark.
"This won't end," Declan said, voice small.
"It never does," I said.
We tightened the house. Simon padded the perimeter. Reed, who used to move favors for clients, kept an eye on the paper trail. Jack released the second song with Declan's voice in a backing track. The song blew up. Declan was shy on camera but honest.
"Who is your writer?" someone asked in an interview.
"A friend," Declan answered. "Someone who saved me."
Rumors spun. People loved the romance. They whispered about the mysterious composer "Clearwind" who returned. The world wanted to know the woman who had both a cold hand and a soft heart.
Colton struck back in the only way left: public smear. Lies spread about Declan's family, about illegal funds. He arranged for lawyers to file injunctions. The stock of Declan's family company dipped.
"Let them talk," I said. "We have what matters."
One night, a car pulled up in front of our gate. Two men got out and forced their way into the driveway. Declan saw them first.
"India," he said, voice sharp.
He moved like a different person. The fragile boy became a tight wire of anger. He raced down, slipped past the men, and hit one with a single punch that sounded wrong in its power. The intruders stumbled back, stunned.
"Get out!" he shouted.
They ran.
When he returned, blood on his knuckles, he looked at me like he had just done what he must.
"You are reckless," I told him.
"You are mine," he said simply. "I won't let them touch what is ours."
He had never been possession to me. He had become something else—the part of me that would let someone in.
Colton lost his largest partner after one of his secret accounts was exposed. The board forced him out of the deal. Gerard's name saturated gossip columns. The law followed quiet but firm steps. They were not executed, but they were pushed out into daylight and left to dry.
"Why expose them like that?" Simon asked. "You could have taken a safer route."
"Safer routes let the vultures circle," I said. "I am not a vulture."
Declan's eyes shone in the sun. "You are brave," he said.
"You're silly," I said back.
We looked at each other and both smiled.
Months passed. Declan learned to read contracts. He sat with me while I rewrote pieces for Jack. He learned to cook with clumsy hands that made food better for being made by him. He started to understand how I worked—rules, layered plans, a life made of quiet danger.
One evening Jack called. "The new track," he said. "It's a hit. 'Sunrise' is climbing the charts."
"You did good," I told him.
"Your work made it feel like daylight," Jack said.
Declan slid an arm around my waist as we listened to the radio blast his name. He leaned his head on my shoulder, heavy with trust.
"Will you stay?" he asked.
I looked down at him. City lights shimmered like a promise outside the window. My hands remembered the weight of my parents' letter, the token they left me. I had a place to stand now—a claim to a house and a heart that wanted me.
"I will stay," I said. "As long as you are safe. As long as you keep the rules."
"And the rules?" he asked, eyes bright.
"No secrets," I said. "Tell me when you want things. Don't be reckless."
"Deal," he smiled.
People would always try to take what we had. But we had the truth in plain sight, and we had each other. Declan surprised me with small things—he left a note on my piano: Play at midnight. He learned the bridges I hated and practiced them.
Once, when I was tired, he took my hands and pressed them to the keys.
"I'm not afraid to learn," he said. "Teach me and I'll teach you to rest."
I laughed. "You promise?"
"I promise." He meant it.
Months later, fear came in different clothes. A last lawyer tried a final trick. But the press had already done their work. Colton's final partners walked away. Gerard moved to a quiet island. Their names faded into the sort of rumor that cannot climb back into power easily.
Nothing wipes away the past. I still have nights where I wake and the memory of broken glass visits me. But I also have Declan's hand on my lap and a photo on my dresser—the framed letter my mother had left in a box. I read it aloud to him once.
"She wrote to tell me to be happy," I said. "To be small and loud and to love like I can survive it."
He listened like a child and like a man.
"Then we will be loud together," he said.
That may be the best truth of all.
The last scene is small: I sit at the piano in our reclaimed house. Declan stands by the window, the evening soft around him. He turns and catches my eye.
"Play it again?" he asks.
"Which?" I say.
He walks over, slides a hand into mine, and leans his forehead to mine.
"The one that made things change," he says.
I press the key. A single note hangs in the room.
He hums under his breath and then, quietly: "Stay."
"I am staying," I answer.
He smiles like a sunrise.
Outside, the city keeps breathing, deals are being made in other rooms, new dangers will come. But inside my house, with a little song, two hands, and a stolen kiss that became a promise, we are exactly where we chose to be.
The End
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