88My housekeeper had been gone less than thirty hours when her four-year-old daughter handed me a secret letter and said, “Mommy told me you’d know what to do.” The first line warned me not to trust the people closest to me—including my fiancée—and hinted that the little girl’s father was someone no one could afford to expose.

The drawing room was bathed in the dim silver light filtering through the high French windows. A fire crackled softly in the massive stone fireplace, casting dancing shadows across the mahogany furniture and oil paintings of my ancestors.

Vanessa Romano sat on the plush velvet sofa, wearing a crisp cream-colored suit that screamed wealth and modern elegance. A delicate gold pen sat in her hand, beside a leather-bound folder containing the harbor project documents.

When I walked into the room, she looked up, offering me a sweet, practiced smile that had tricked me for nearly two years.

“There you are, darling,” she cooed, standing up and reaching out her hands toward me. “Vincent said you disappeared this morning. I was getting worried. You know how unpredictable things get when you’re stressed.”

I stood three feet away from her, ignoring her outstretched hands.

“Where were you yesterday morning, Vanessa?” I asked quietly.

Her smile faltered slightly, her dark eyes flashing with a brief moment of confusion.

“Yesterday? I was at my father’s apartment, Adrian. I told you that. I needed to prepare the final legal schedules for the trust.”

“You weren't at the clinic?”

Vanessa’s hands lowered slowly back to her side. The sweet warmth in her face began to cool into something sharper.

“The clinic? Why would I be at the clinic?”

“To check on Claire’s final paperwork,” I said, walking slowly over to the drink cart near the fireplace. I poured myself two fingers of bourbon, my back turned to her. “Claire left a very interesting document before she died, Vanessa.”

The silence in the room became absolute. The only sound was the crackle of the wood in the fireplace.

“Claire was a housekeeper, Adrian,” Vanessa said, her voice dropping its soft edge, taking on a guarded, careful tone. “She was sick and confused during her final days. You shouldn't be dwelling on whatever nonsense she babied you with.”

I turned around, holding my glass, staring at her over the rim.

“She didn't give it to me,” I said softly. “She gave it to Maya Reyes.”

Vanessa’s face did not pale. She was too seasoned, too cold for a simple slip of the mask. But her right hand tightened into a small fist against her silk trousers.

“Maya Reyes is a defense lawyer who lives on drama and corporate scandals,” Vanessa said dismissively. “If she’s trying to drag you into some legal scheme using a dead servant’s memory, you should let Vincent handle her.”

“Vincent is already handling things,” a deep voice said from the doorway.

I looked over.

Vincent walked into the room, closing the double doors behind him. Standing right beside him was Dr. Thomas Vance, holding a black leather medical bag, his face pale and sweating despite the cool temperature of the house.

The trap had been sprung. But they didn't know who was holding the key.

“Adrian,” Vincent said smoothly, stepping into the center of the room and resting his hand near his belt where his sidearm sat. “You’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. The funeral, the harbor deal, the estate management. Dr. Vance thinks you should take a quiet rest up in the cottage for a few days before we finalize the Romano contracts.”

Dr. Vance took a nervous step forward, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses.

“It’s purely precautionary, Adrian,” Dr. Vance stammered, his voice trembling slightly. “A short medical hold to ensure your blood pressure and stress levels are managed. We can handle the signing on your behalf under the temporary power of attorney Vanessa holds.”

I took a slow sip of my bourbon, looking at the three of them grouped together in my drawing room.

My fiancée.

My cousin.

My family doctor.

“A medical hold,” I repeated softly. “Just like the medical reports you forged five years ago, Thomas?”

Dr. Vance gasped, taking a sharp step back, his leather bag slipping slightly in his hand.

“What are you talking about?” Vincent demanded, his voice hardening into a threat.

“I’m talking about AM-001,” I said, setting my glass down on the stone mantle with a quiet click. “I’m talking about the Swiss lab results from six years ago. I’m talking about a little girl named Lily, who has been sleeping in the servants' quarters of my own home while you listed yourself as her father on a fraudulent birth certificate, Vincent.”

Vincent’s hand snapped directly to the grip of his pistol.

“Don't move, Adrian,” Vincent growled, his eyes turning cold and dead. “You always were too smart for your own good. But you’re alone in this house. Security is mine. The guards are mine. The estate is sealed.”

Vanessa stepped back toward the sofa, her face cold as marble. “It didn't have to be like this, Adrian. You could have signed the papers, lived comfortably as a figurehead, and let us run the empire. But you just couldn't leave the housekeeper's girl alone.”