Chapter 3 - Whispers in the Hallway
Life at the estate quickly fell into a strange, domestic rhythm. Joan’s ribs were healing, though her body still countered with sharp pains if she moved too quickly. She became Betty’s shadow. They spent afternoons in the vast gardens, drawing with chalk on the terrace, and reading stories. For the first time in years, Joan wasn't thinking about her bank account. But the luxury felt like a velvet trap.
One evening, around midnight, Joan woke up thirsty. She quietly left her bedroom, navigating the dimly lit, vaulted corridors of the mansion to head toward the kitchen.
As she passed the heavy double doors of Richard’s home office, she heard raised voices.
"You're being paranoid, Richard!" a voice hissed. It was a voice Joan recognized from the news—Thomas Seagull, Richard’s younger brother and the CFO of the company. "The Silver Oak attack was a random act of violence, a botched robbery. You're locking yourself and my niece away because of a fluke!"
"A fluke don't bring military-grade suppressed firearms into a civilian restaurant, Thomas!" Richard roared back. "They knew exactly which private dining room we were in. The security feeds from the street showed the Mercedes waiting for our arrival."
"And who are you trusting instead?" Thomas sneered. "A penniless waitress? You brought a complete stranger into your home, gave her access to Betty. How do you know she wasn't the inside source? It’s the perfect play—act like a hero, get inside the castle, and wait for the right moment to strike."
Joan’s breath caught in her throat. She stepped back into the shadows, her heart hammering against her ribs. The paranoia in this house was infectious. She realized that to the elites, she wasn't a savior; she was a variable they couldn't calculate.
Before she could retreat to her room, a heavy hand dropped onto her shoulder.
May you like
She gasped, spinning around. Standing behind her was Arthur Vance—not Victor Vance the competitor, but the estate’s Head of Security, a hulking ex-military man with an unreadable face.
"Eavesdropping is a dangerous habit, Miss Rhodes," Arthur said, his voice flat and devoid of warmth.
