The Mafia Boss’s Daughter Had Not Walked in Six Years—Until a Shy Maid Noticed What Every Doctor Missed

The next afternoon was my designated time to clean the second-floor guest suites.

Instead of dusting the empty parlors, I waited until Mr. Hayes was downstairs reviewing the wine ledger in the cellar and Selene was occupied with the linen inventory in the east wing.

I slipped into the west wing study—the private medical room where Dr. Vance kept his spare instruments and locked supply cases whenever he stayed overnight at Blackwater House.

The door was locked, but my months working at Saint Jude’s had taught me a few practical skills. I pulled a thin, sturdy steel corset stay from my apron pocket—one I had salvaged from the laundry scrap pile—and inserted it into the brass keyhole. With two firm, careful twists, the tumbler clicked open.

I slipped inside and closed the door quietly behind me.

The room smelled strongly of formaldehyde, tincture of iodine, and cheap cigars. A heavy oak desk sat near the window, littered with medical journals, glass vials, and financial ledgers.

I went straight to the lower desk drawers. They were locked, but the lock was old and loose. Using the metal stay again, I popped the latch and pulled the drawer open.

Inside lay stacks of formal correspondence bearing the official seal of the Vance Medical Clinic, alongside private bank statements from the City Merchant Bank.

I flipped through the pages rapidly, my eyes scanning the fine print.

To Dr. E. Vance – Monthly Stipend for Long-Term Care Management of J.V. Amount: £300 per month. Signed: Bellevue Pharmaceutical Syndicate.

I paused, my fingers freezing over the parchment.

Bellevue Pharmaceutical Syndicate.

I knew that name. Every worker in the lower district knew that name. It was the massive chemical conglomerate that owned half the factories along the river—the direct business competitor to Adrian Vale’s shipping and trade empire.

I turned to the next page. It was a copy of an old land deed dated six years ago—the month of the great fire that had destroyed Adrian Vale’s original waterfront home and killed his wife, Eleanor Vale.

According to the deed, the land beneath the burned estate had contained a massive natural deep-water spring—a key water source needed for Bellevue Pharmaceuticals to expand their chemical processing plants. But Adrian Vale had repeatedly refused to sell the land to them, holding onto it as a memorial to his late wife.

Then, my eyes caught a handwritten note tucked inside a small black ledger in Vance’s handwriting:

As long as the child remains paralyzed and mentally incapacitated, Vale remains broken, consumed by guilt, and focused entirely on her survival. He will not inspect the river survey reports. Continue the Solution No. 4 regimen indefinitely. If the child recovers her motor function, she may remember what she saw in the study before the fire was set.

My breath caught in my throat.

She saw what happened before the fire was set.

Juliet wasn't just being kept sick to break Adrian Vale’s spirit and keep him distracted from his business empire. She was a witness.

The fire hadn't been an accident. It was arson committed by Bellevue Pharmaceuticals with the help of Dr. Vance—and nine-year-old Juliet was the only living person who knew the truth.

Suddenly, the brass door handle clicked.

I shoved the papers back into the drawer, slammed it shut, and spun around just as the door swung open.

Selene March stood in the doorway, holding a stack of folded towels. Her eyes widened as she saw me standing behind Dr. Vance’s private desk.

"What are you doing in here?!" Selene shrieked, her voice echoing down the silent corridor. "You dirty little thief! You're breaking into the doctor's private study!"