Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Eight Years Old
By six o'clock that evening, the estate had been completely transformed into a medical sanctuary.
Dr. Aris and two pediatric nurses arrived within thirty minutes. Elena was diagnosed with severe pneumonia brought on by exhaustion and lack of nutrition. She was immediately hooked up to a warm saline and antibiotic drip in one of the mansion’s second-floor guest suites—a room three times the size of her basement quarters, equipped with a fireplace and plush velvet bedding.
Little Nora had been bathed in warm water, dressed in a soft flannel pajama set that one of the nurses had brought, and fed a bowl of warm chicken soup prepared by the estate's head chef.
I sat in my library on the main floor, staring into the flickering embers of the fireplace. On the small glass table beside me sat the blue ink-stained white shirt that Nora had tried so desperately to clean.
The door opened, and my personal assistant, Clara, stepped inside carrying a thick leather dossier.
"Mr. Luca," Clara said softly. "The forensic auditors have finished their preliminary scan of Harland’s accounts."
"What did they find?" I asked, not taking my eyes off the fire.
"It’s worse than we thought," Clara revealed, opening the file. "For the past four years, Harland has been skimming off the staff payroll. He was reporting full salaries for six housekeepers to your accountants, but paying Elena and two other maids less than forty percent of their wages, keeping the rest in an offshore account in the Bahamas."
My hands tightened into fists around the arms of my chair. "He was stealing from the lowest-paid people in my home."
"Yes," Clara continued. "He also withheld medical insurance paperwork that you had approved for the domestic staff. Elena never received her healthcare coverage because Harland pocketed the premium funds. That’s why she couldn't afford to go to an urgent care clinic when her pneumonia started two weeks ago."
A cold, lethal rage settled into my bones. "Where is Harland now?"
"He was processed at the county jail two hours ago," Clara answered. "The district attorney has already denied bail due to the evidence from your security footage and the audit logs. He is facing up to fifteen years in federal prison."
"Make sure he serves every single day of it," I said flatly. "And Clara?"
"Yes, Mr. Luca?"
"I want the back wages stolen from Elena and the rest of the staff recalculated immediately. Add a two-hundred-percent penalty out of Harland’s frozen assets and deposit it directly into their accounts by tomorrow morning."
"I’ll have it done before midnight," Clara nodded respectfully.
As Clara turned to leave, a small, soft patter of barefoot steps sounded near the open doorway.
I looked over. Nora was standing in the doorway, holding a plush brown teddy bear that the pediatric nurse had given her. She was wearing her oversized flannel pajamas, her curly hair still damp from her bath.
"Mr. Luca?" she asked quietly.
I stood up from my chair and walked over to her, kneeling on the rug. "Why aren't you sleeping, Nora?"
"Mama is sleeping in the big bed," she whispered, looking around the massive library lined with thousands of leather-bound books. "Is... is this your room?"
"This is my library," I told her softly. "You can come in."
She walked over to the fireplace, holding her teddy bear tightly against her chest, letting the warmth of the fire wash over her face. Then, her eyes fell on the stained white shirt sitting on the glass table.
She stopped. Her small shoulders tensed up again.
"I'm sorry about the shirt," she murmured, looking down at her toes.
I picked up the shirt, walked over to the fire, and tossed the three-hundred-dollar silk garment directly into the roaring flames.
Nora gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. "Mr. Luca! The shirt!"
We watched together as the fabric caught fire, turning to black ash in seconds.
"It’s just cloth, Nora," I told her, taking her small hand in mine. "It was never worth a single tear from your eyes, and it was never worth your mother’s health. Do you understand me?"
She looked up at me, her brown eyes shining in the firelight, and slowly nodded.
May you like
"Come on," I said gently, picking her up in my arms. "Let's get you back to your mother."
As I carried her up the grand staircase, her head rested against my shoulder, her warm, even breaths rustling my collar. For the first time in twenty years, the cold shadow of my eight-year-old self didn't feel so heavy anymore.
