Chapter 2 - The East Wing
The staff floor locked at nine.
No one complained. No one asked why. In the Fiero estate, questions had a cost, and the staff had learned to remain employed by never spending more than they could afford.
Dalia sat on the edge of her bed, fully dressed, listening to the storm beginning beyond the roofline. It was not the violent storm that would come weeks later. This one was gentler, almost polite, rain tapping the windows like fingers asking to be let in.
Down the hall, someone cried quietly.
Dalia did not know which maid it was. People in the estate cried the way they worked—privately, efficiently, without making it anyone else’s problem.
At ten-thirty, Bobby scratched at her door.
Dalia opened it a crack and stared.
“You cannot be here.”
Bobby pushed the door open with his head.
“How did you get past the lock?”
He gave no explanation. He simply turned and walked down the hall, then stopped and looked back.
Dalia should have closed the door. She should have climbed into bed, pulled the blanket over her head, and protected the secret growing beneath her ribs.
Instead, she followed the dog.
Bobby led her past the linen room, down the service staircase, and through a narrow corridor behind the library. The estate was darker than usual. Lamps that were normally left burning had been turned off. The silence felt deliberate.
At the end of the corridor, Bobby stopped beside a door Dalia had never seen open.
The basement door.
Her pulse quickened.
“No.”
Bobby looked at her.
“Absolutely not.”
From somewhere below came a sound.
A woman’s voice.
Dalia could not make out the words, but she recognized fear even when it was muffled by stone.
Bobby pushed the door with his nose. It opened.
The lock had been broken.
Dalia whispered a curse and stepped inside.
The staircase descended into cold darkness. The smell changed as she went down: damp stone, old wood, gasoline, cigar smoke, and something metallic beneath it all. At the bottom, a single lamp burned on a desk outside a reinforced door.
The woman’s voice came again, sharper this time.
“Rowan cannot sign what he cannot read.”
A man answered, “Rowan signs what family places in front of him when family bleeds for it.”
Dalia’s blood went cold.
She knew that voice.
Not well. She had heard it only once before, from the hallway after dinner. Salvatore Fiero. Rowan’s uncle.
Another voice spoke. Younger. Lazy. Cruel.
“Marsh says the window closes after the board vote. We have one month.”
Marsh.
Dalia’s hand flew to her mouth.
Daniel Marsh.
She backed away, but Bobby blocked her retreat. Not aggressively. Urgently.
Inside the room, Salvatore continued. “Daniel Marsh is useful because he is hungry. Hungry men mistake access for power. After his sister marries Rowan, we control the inside. After Rowan is removed, we control the board. After the board confirms succession, Daniel learns what outsiders always learn.”
“And the girl?” the younger man asked.
“What girl?”
“Marsh’s girl. The one who disappeared.”
Dalia’s heartbeat became thunder.
Salvatore was silent for three seconds.
Then he said, “If she appears, she does not leave the property breathing.”
The lamp beside Dalia flickered.
Bobby’s low growl filled the stairwell.
Inside the room, someone stopped speaking.
Dalia ran.
She took the stairs too fast, one hand clamped over her mouth, the other pressed against her stomach. Bobby stayed behind her, massive body brushing the wall. When they reached the service corridor, she nearly collided with Mrs. Hargrove.
The housekeeper caught her by both arms.
“What did you hear?”
Dalia shook her head.
Mrs. Hargrove’s fingers tightened. “What did you hear?”
“Daniel Marsh.”
The old woman closed her eyes.
For the first time, Mrs. Hargrove looked old.
“Come with me.”
She dragged Dalia into the pantry and locked the door. Bobby stood guard outside.
Mrs. Hargrove turned on one small light.
“You know that name?”
Dalia’s mouth was dry. “I lived with him.”
Mrs. Hargrove did not flinch, but something behind her eyes rearranged itself.
“For how long?”
“Eighteen months.”
“Does he know where you are?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“I was.”
Mrs. Hargrove looked at Dalia’s stomach again.
Dalia did not deny it.
The housekeeper exhaled slowly. “God help us.”
“What is happening here?”
Mrs. Hargrove moved to the pantry shelves, reached behind a row of flour tins, and removed a small black key.
“Rowan’s father built this house like a fortress because he trusted no one. By the time he died, he had learned he was right.”
“What does Daniel want with Rowan?”
“Rowan owns the company. The company owns routes, docks, customs contracts, warehouses, ships, debt, favors, silence. Men like Daniel Marsh think power is a door. They do not understand it is a house. They think if they marry into the right room, they own the walls.”
Dalia’s knees weakened.
“His sister,” she whispered. “Daniel said once his sister married Rowan—”
“Isla Marsh,” Mrs. Hargrove said. “She arrived in Rowan’s life six months ago. Too polished. Too patient. Too perfect.”
Dalia’s stomach twisted.
Daniel had a sister. She had seen photographs in his apartment, a blonde woman in expensive dresses, always laughing beside people richer than herself.
Dalia backed against the shelves.
“Rowan is engaged to her?”
“Not publicly. Not yet.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
Dalia whispered, “Then Daniel knows exactly where to find him.”
Mrs. Hargrove’s face hardened.
“That means he may know where to find you.”
From beyond the pantry door, Bobby barked once.
Not a warning.
An alarm.
Footsteps crossed the kitchen.
Slow. Searching.
A man’s voice called softly, “Dalia?”
She stopped breathing.
It was not Daniel.
It was worse.
May you like
Enzo Fiero.
And he sounded as though he already knew she was hiding.
