Chapter 2 - The Shadow in the East Parlor
The East Parlor was a cavernous room filled with gilded mirrors, priceless oil paintings of ancestors who looked down with severe, judgmental expressions, and a massive mahogany dining table that could seat twenty. My task was simple: polish the silver candelabras that lined the sideboard.
As I worked, my mind raced back to the west wing.
Why had Alessandro Moretti reacted that way? In every profile, every whispered rumor among the estate staff, he was described as cold, unpredictable, and detached from humanity since the accident. Yet he had allowed my toddler—a complete stranger—to feed him a stale cookie.
As I rubbed a polishing cloth over a tarnished silver cherub, the heavy double doors of the parlor creaked open.
I turned, expecting to see Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper, coming to inspect my work. Instead, a tall man in a tailored charcoal suit stepped into the room. He had sharp, dark hair slicked back with precise care, a thin, aristocratic nose, and eyes that surveyed the room with an unsettling combination of arrogance and calculation.
Victor Vance.
I knew his face from the digital files the agency had provided during onboarding, though they had warned us he was rarely at the estate. He was Alessandro’s lifelong friend, chief legal counsel, and the managing director of Moretti Holdings.
"You're the new girl," Victor said, his voice smooth, carrying the polished cadence of a corporate shark who spent his days in high-stakes boardrooms.
"Yes, sir," I said, immediately lowering my gaze and dipping into a polite nod. "I’m Nora. I was just—"
"I know what you're doing," Victor interrupted, walking slowly toward the fireplace. He picked up an antique brass poker, turning it over in his hands as if weighing its value. "The question is, do you know where you are?"
"I’m cleaning the East Parlor, Mr. Vance."
"You're in a house of cards, Nora," Victor said, his gaze shifting to meet mine with a chilling intensity. "Alessandro isn't well. His mind is as fractured as his spine. People take advantage of that. People think because he can't walk, he can't strike. I advise you to keep your head down, do your chores, and keep your child out of his sight. The last thing Alessandro needs is amateur distractions."
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. There was a subtle threat woven into Victor’s words—not just a warning about the estate, but a deeper, darker undercurrent that suggested he viewed Alessandro not as a friend to protect, but as an obstacle to manage.
"She wandered in by accident, sir. It won't happen again," I said steadily, refusing to cower.
Victor smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. It was a cold, practiced curve of the lips. "Good. Because accidents in this house tend to have permanent consequences."
He turned and walked out of the room, leaving the scent of expensive cologne and ozone lingering in the air.
When my ten minutes were up, I hurried back down the corridor toward the west-wing office, my heart pounding with a sudden, unshakeable dread. When I pushed the door open, Emma was sitting cross-legged on the Persian rug, coloring in a picture book Alessandro had apparently retrieved from a bottom shelf, while the man himself watched her with a faint, almost imperceptible smile.
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As I stepped inside, Alessandro looked up, his expression hardening back into the impenetrable mask he wore for the world.
"She’s fine, Nora," he said before I could speak. "Go back to your work. But bring her back tomorrow."
