Chapter 3 - Shadows in the East Wing
By midnight, the engagement party had mercifully dissolved. The last of the limousines rolled down the gravel driveway of the Hawthorne estate, leaving the sprawling mansion wrapped in an oppressive, heavy silence.
Ethan sat in his private second-floor study, the room illuminated only by the dying embers of a stone fireplace and the cold glow of his laptop screen. He hadn't touched his celebratory glass of scotch. Instead, his fingers hovered over the keyboard, pulling up the internal personnel files of the temporary staffing agency that had supplied the evening's crew.
Elena Soto. Age 24. Employment history: Contract housekeeping for commercial and residential properties across Seattle.
There was nothing remarkable about the digital profile. No criminal record, no prominent family ties, no social media footprint to speak of. Just a standard resume of a young woman working odd jobs to survive in an expensive city.
So why did his two-year-old son—who had never spoken a single syllable to anyone in his entire life, not even to Ethan—look at her and utter the word Mama?
The door to the study clicked open. Claire walked in, wearing a silk robe, her hair falling loosely around her shoulders. The pristine, untouchable elegance from the ballroom had vanished, replaced by a subtle, frantic edge.
"You’re still awake," Claire said, walking over to the desk and placing a warm, manicured hand on Ethan’s shoulder. "You're obsessing over what happened downstairs, aren't you? It was just a toddler babbling nonsense, Ethan. Pediatricians say they blurt out random phonemes all the time. It meant nothing."
Ethan turned his head slowly, looking up at her. The emerald-green gown was gone, but the illusion of perfection was still clinging to her like cheap perfume.
"He didn't blurt out a random phoneme, Claire," Ethan said quietly, his voice dangerously level. "He spoke a word. A specific word. And he directed it at a woman who was kneeling on our floor."
Claire’s hand tightened on his shoulder, her fingernails pressing just a fraction too hard into his fabric. "Are seriously letting a mute toddler and a cleaning maid make you paranoid? We are getting married in three weeks, Ethan. My father’s real estate conglomerate is merging with Hawthorne Global next quarter. We have an empire to build. I will not have our lives disrupted by a confused girl who cleans floors."
"Where is she now?" Ethan asked.
Claire paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Who? The maid? She finished her shift and left. Why would you care?"
"Because," Ethan said, standing up from his desk and towering over her, "I want to talk to her."
"Ethan, this is absurd!" Claire’s voice rose, losing its carefully managed composure. "If you start chasing after every temporary worker who crosses our path, the tabloids will have a field day. Do you want the board of directors thinking you've lost your mind right before the merger?"
Ethan didn't answer her. He walked past her toward the hallway, his boots clicking sharply against the hardwood floor.
"Where are you going?" Claire called out, panic lacing her tone.
"To check the staff quarters in the east wing," Ethan said over his shoulder without breaking his stride. "The agency contracts stipulate that temporary overnight staff are housed in the estate's guest lodge until morning. I want some answers, Claire. And I intend to get them."
The east wing of the Hawthorne estate was older than the rest of the modern mansion, built during the original Victorian era before Ethan bought the property and modernized it. The corridors were narrower, lit by old-fashioned sconces that cast long, flickering shadows against the dark wood paneling.
Ethan walked down the silent hallway toward the converted staff quarters. The heavy oak door at the end of the hall—leading to the basement and the lower service utility tunnels—was usually locked tight.
As he approached, he noticed something strange.
A sliver of pale yellow light leaked out from beneath the door.
Ethan stopped. According to the estate rules, all service staff were supposed to be asleep in the upper lodge across the courtyard by midnight. No one should be down in the basement service corridor at this hour.
He reached out, resting his hand on the brass doorknob. It turned silently in his grip. Pushing the heavy door open just an inch, he peered down the dark stone stairs leading into the bowels of the mansion.
May you like
And then he heard voices. One of them belonged to a frightened young woman fighting back tears.
The other voice belonged to someone Ethan knew far too well.
