Chapter 3 - The Coldest Morning
Back at Holloway Manor, Emily Carter was wiping down the mahogany balustrade with trembling hands.
Her stomach ached with a hollow, nauseating pain. She hadn’t eaten breakfast; she had given her entire half-loaf of Rosa’s bread to the puppies, saving only a cup of tap water for herself. Her mind was seven miles away, trapped in the damp chill of that abandoned textile mill.
Did the heater die? she agonized silently, dragging the cloth along the wood. Did Rosa remember to bring the fresh water at noon? What if Maple slipped away while I was wiping dust off a billionaire’s banister?
Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them furiously away. She couldn’t afford to cry. If Margaret Sloan saw her weeping, she would report her to Mr. Holloway, and today of all days, Emily was hanging by a thread.
She had arrived at 7:18 a.m. Eighteen minutes late.
She had already calculated the math while scrubbing the service stairs. Eighteen minutes meant another thirty-two dollars deducted from her paycheck. Her net pay for today would barely cover Maple’s pediatric electrolyte solution, let alone the clinic fees.
“You missed a spot near the landing,” Margaret Sloan’s sharp voice cut through her thoughts.
The senior housekeeper stood at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed over her pristine black uniform, her eyes gleaming with cold satisfaction. Margaret had spent ten years currying favor with the Holloway estate, running it like a military barracks. She viewed Emily’s quiet humility not as grace, but as weakness.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Sloan,” Emily said softly, dipping her rag back into the bucket of warm, lemony water. “I’ll get it right now.”
“Mr. Holloway hasn’t come downstairs yet,” Margaret noted, checking her wristwatch. “Nor did he take his morning coffee. Daniel took the car out at dawn. When the master returns, Emily, he will want to speak with you in the library.”
Emily’s heart sank into her shoes. “The library?”
“The food from the refrigerator,” Margaret said with a razor-thin smile. “I told him yesterday. Mr. Holloway does not tolerate thieves in this house. You’re lucky he didn’t call the police last night.”
Emily gripped the wooden railing until her knuckles turned white. “I took leftover rice and scraps of cooked chicken that were scheduled for the garbage disposal, Mrs. Sloan. I never stole fresh food.”
“Taking without asking is theft,” Margaret retorted. “And with your chronic tardiness? You’re done here, Carter. Pack your apron. You won’t see another dime from this estate.”
Margaret turned and walked stiffly toward the kitchens, leaving Emily standing alone on the staircase.
A suffocating panic pressed down on Emily’s chest. If she was fired today, she wouldn’t receive her weekly check on Friday. Without that money, she couldn’t pay rent. Her landlord would lock her out, and the three puppies would freeze to death when Victor Dane’s demolition bulldozers rolled into the Mill District tomorrow morning.
Tomorrow morning.
She had forgotten about the demolition notice posted on the fence. Friday. Friday at 8:00 a.m.
She dropped the rag into the bucket and sank onto the top step, burying her face in her calloused, scratched hands. Sobs racked her thin frame, silent and violent. She had tried so hard. She had worked twelve-hour shifts, scrubbed floors until her knees bled, walked miles in the rain, swallowed her pride every time Grant Holloway clicked his cruel stopwatch in her face.
She had endured it all because she believed that if you did the right thing, life eventually showed mercy.
Instead, the world was crushing her.
Downstairs, the heavy oak front doors swung open with a resounding crash.
Emily froze. She scrambled to her feet, frantically wiping her wet cheeks with the sleeve of her uniform. Heavy, hurried footsteps echoed across the marble foyer below.
Emily peeked through the balusters, expecting to see Grant Holloway storming in to fire her on the spot.
Instead, her jaw dropped.
Grant Holloway stood in the foyer, but he looked completely unrecognizable. His tailored shirt was ripped at the shoulder, covered in streaks of black machine grease and yellow dust. His hair was windswept and wild. But most shocking of all was what he was carrying.
Tucked safely inside a brand-new, fleece-lined pet travel carrier in his hands were Biscuit and Pepper, their little noses pressed against the mesh.
Behind him walked Daniel, carrying several large bags bearing the logo of the Oak Street Animal Hospital, filled with puppy milk formula, specialized canned food, and blankets.
Mrs. Hayes emerged from the kitchen, stopping in her tracks with a gasp. “Lord have mercy, Mr. Holloway! What happened to you?”
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Grant didn’t answer Mrs. Hayes. He looked straight up the sweeping staircase, his piercing gaze locking directly onto Emily.
***
