Chapter 3 - The Gathering Darkness
Friday morning arrived under a thick blanket of gray clouds. A cool breeze rustled through the oak trees surrounding the Caldwell estate.
Inside the mansion, the atmosphere was chaotic.
Vanessa was flying into rages every twenty minutes. She screamed at the florists because the orchids were "too cream and not white enough." She threatened to fire the executive chef because the microgreens on the salmon canapés weren't precisely uniform.
And throughout it all, Luke Mercer was forced to run back and forth, carrying heavy ice bags, polishing hundreds of crystal wine glasses, and hanging expensive velvet drapes.
By 3:00 PM, Ethan’s body was aching, but he moved with meticulous precision. Every glass he polished, every table he aligned, was setting the stage for his stage.
Vanessa hurried into the kitchen, wearing a fluffy white bathrobe, her hair pinned up in rollers. She looked at Ethan, who was carefully wiping down the silver cutlery.
"Luke!" she barked.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"My fiancé’s private jet landed at Atlanta Executive Airport thirty minutes ago," she said, her cheeks flushed with frantic anticipation. "His car will be here at six o'clock sharp. I want you out of sight before the guests arrive."
"Out of sight, ma'am?" Ethan asked, adjusting his thick glasses.
"Yes! You look filthy," she said, eyeing his worn work pants and stained apron with utter disgust. "I don't want my wealthy friends or Ethan seeing some low-class peasant creeping around the catering tables. Once you finish polishing the silver, go lock yourself in the basement. You are not to step foot on the main floor until every guest leaves tonight."
Ethan lowered his eyes, hiding the lethal gleam in his dark contact lenses. "Understood, ma'am. Will there be any dinner left for me tonight?"
Vanessa scoffed, turning toward the mirror to check her makeup. "You really never stop thinking about your stomach, do you? There are leftover scraps from the caterer’s prep in the alley bins outside. If you’re that desperate, eat those. Now hurry up!"
She swept out of the kitchen, her laughter echoing down the hallway.
Ethan stood alone in the grand kitchen. He looked down at his hands, then reached up and touched the edge of the subtle facial prosthetics along his jaw.
" leftover scraps," he murmured softly to himself.
He pulled out his phone and typed a quick message to his sister Claire: She just told me to eat out of the alley bins. The trap is locked.
Claire replied instantly: I’m arriving at the gate in ten minutes with the legal team and the makeup artist. Get ready.
Ethan took off his stained apron and threw it onto the marble island. He stepped out the service back door and walked toward the detached garden guesthouse, where a team of three people was waiting in secret.
Inside the guesthouse, Claire rushed forward, wrapping her arms around her brother in a tight hug. "Oh, Ethan... look at your hands! You look exhausted!"
"I'm fine, Claire," Ethan said, giving her a reassuring squeeze. "Is everything in place?"
A talented film makeup artist stepped forward with bottles of solvent, moist towels, and a sharp suit hanging on a garment rack. "We have forty-five minutes to remove the prosthetics, fix your hair, and get you into your custom tuxedo, Mr. Caldwell."
"Do it," Ethan said, sitting down in front of the illuminated vanity mirror.
As the artist began applying the gentle solvent to dissolve the prosthetic glue, Ethan watched his true face slowly emerge from behind the mask of Luke Mercer. The gray-streaked hair yielded to his dark brown locks; the thick beard was replaced by his clean, sharp jawline; the thick glasses came off, revealing his piercing grey eyes.
With every layer of latex washed away, the tired, obedient servant vanished—and Ethan Caldwell, multi-billionaire titan of industry, stood fully restored.
He stepped into his bespoke Tom Ford tuxedo, buttoning the jacket and adjusting the black silk bow tie. He placed his platinum Patek Philippe watch onto his wrist.
Claire stood behind him, looking at her brother in the mirror with immense pride and fiercely protective love. "How do you feel?"
May you like
Ethan adjusted his cuffs, looking at his reflection. His eyes were cold, sharp, and utterly merciless.
"I feel like hosting a party," Ethan said smoothly.
