Chapter 2 - The Reading of the Past
Thirty minutes later, the grand ballroom had been forcibly cleared. Adrian's private security team had swept through the mansion, confiscating phones, escorting stunned guests to their vehicles, and issuing strict non-disclosure warnings to the press.
I sat on a velvet settee in the private third-floor study of Vale Manor, holding a china cup of tea that felt far too light and delicate in my hands. Lucia was sound asleep beside me, curled up on the soft cushions, her small head resting on my lap, her stuffed rabbit clutched tightly in her arm. Her worn sneakers rested on a hand-woven Persian rug worth more than my entire family had earned in a decade.
Adrian stood near the fireplace, pouring himself two fingers of scotch, while Eleanor sat across from me in a winged armchair, her frail hands resting on a thick, leather-bound photo album.
Celeste Winthrop paced near the door like a caged predator, her arms crossed over her chest, her red dress gleaming under the soft lamp light. Her father, Richard Winthrop—a powerful corporate attorney and major shareholder in Vale Enterprises—stood beside her, his face dark with irritation.
"Even if this absurd story is true," Richard Winthrop said, clearing his throat loudly and stepping into the center of the room, "it changes nothing legally, Eleanor. Rose Bennett—if that was indeed her name—severed all ties with the family thirty years ago. She forfeited her rights to the estate, the trust funds, and the family name."
"Shut up, Richard," Eleanor said without looking at him. She opened the photo album on her lap.
"I will not shut up!" Richard insisted, stepping closer to Adrian. "Adrian, your wedding to Celeste is set for next month! The merger between Winthrop Capital and Vale Enterprises is tied directly to this union! You cannot allow a random maid and her illegitimate child to derail a three-billion-dollar deal!"
"My daughter is not illegitimate," I said, my voice rising with a quiet, sharp strength that startled even myself. I looked Richard Winthrop dead in the eye. "My husband died of heart failure four years ago. He worked two jobs to support us. Do not ever speak about my family like that again."
Adrian looked at me, a subtle glint of approval flashing in his dark eyes. He took a sip of his scotch and stepped between Richard Winthrop and my chair.
"Richard," Adrian said calmly, though his posture was dangerous. "If you raise your voice at my cousin again in this house, my security guards will throw you and your daughter out into the driveway. Do you understand me?"
Celeste gasped. "Adrian! How can you choose them over us?!"
"Because they are blood, Celeste," Eleanor said softly, turning the album around so I could see the yellowed photographs inside. "And I have spent thirty years dying of guilt for what I did to Rose."
I leaned forward, looking down at the photograph Eleanor was pointing to.
My breath hitched.
It was a picture of my mother when she was no older than nineteen. She was wearing a white ballet tutu, her hair swept up in a flawless bun, smiling brightly beside a grand piano. Standing right beside her was Eleanor, younger and radiant, holding a bouquet of red roses.
"My mother..." I whispered, touching the glossy paper. "She never talked about her family. Whenever I asked about my grandparents, she would just get quiet and say they were gone."
"I drove her away," Eleanor wept, placing her hand over mine. "When Rose was twenty, she fell in love with a young, idealistic music student who had no money, no title, and no standing in Boston society. Your father, Clara—David Bennett."
I blinked. "My father was an accountant."
"He was a musician first," Eleanor said softly. "My late husband and I were arrogant, foolish people. We demanded that Rose cut ties with David. We told her that if she married him, we would strip her of her inheritance, destroy David's career prospects, and erase her from the family history. We thought fear would make her submit."
Eleanor let out a broken, ragged sigh.
"We underestimated your mother's heart," Eleanor continued. "One night, thirty years ago, Rose took her dance shoes, left her keys on the dining table, and walked out into the rain. She never came back. We searched for her for years, but David helped her change her social security trail. She vanished completely into the working-class neighborhoods of the city."
"And you never found her?" I asked, my heart aching for the young woman my mother must have been—scared, alone, but fiercely devoted to the man she loved.
"No," Eleanor murmured. "And two years later, your aunt Clara—Adrian's mother—died in a car accident. My home became a tomb. I had lost both of my daughters. I spent the next twenty-five years praying that God would give me one chance to ask Rose for forgiveness."
Eleanor reached out, gently touching Lucia’s sleeping face.
"God didn't bring Rose back to me," Eleanor whispered. "He brought me her daughter. And her granddaughter."
"This is insane!" Celeste burst out, walking over to the couch and glaring at me with unfiltered malice. "She's a fake! She probably found those photos in an old newspaper archive! Adrian, demand a DNA test! Demand it right now before you give this peasant a single cent!"
Adrian set his glass down on the mantelpiece with a heavy clack.
"A DNA test will be performed tomorrow morning," Adrian said smoothly. "Not because I doubt her identity—the dance and the melody are proof enough for me—but because I want the legal paper trail to be absolute and legally binding."
He walked over to me, looking down with a quiet, solemn authority.
"Clara," Adrian said softly. "You and Lucia will not be returning to your apartment in South Boston tonight. You will stay here, in the West Wing suites."
May you like
"Adrian, no!" Celeste protested.
"This is Vale Manor, Celeste," Adrian replied coldly, his eyes locking onto hers. "And as of tonight, Clara Bennett is no longer a maid in this house. She is a mistress of it."
