Chapter 2 - The Forbidden North Wing
Midnight at the Lake Forest estate was not quiet. It was filled with the low, rhythmic hum of security servers, the distant whistling of the wind off Lake Michigan, and, faintly, through the thick walls of the servants' quarters, the muffled sound of a child crying himself to sleep.
Clara sat on the edge of her narrow twin bed in the basement-level staff wing, rubbing an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel against her bruised ribs. Every breath still stung, a sharp reminder of the bronze horse and the desperate fury in Noah’s eyes.
On her nightstand sat her phone. She picked it up and stared at the screen. A text from her mother in Cicero flashed in the notification bar: Hospital called again, Clara. They scheduled Tyler's pre-op for next Thursday. We need the deposit by Monday or they push the date back six months.
Six months. Tyler’s heart murmur had already worsened twice this year. Six months could mean everything.
Clara set the phone down and buried her face in her hands. She had promised herself she would keep her head down, clean the marble, avoid Dominic Vale, and ignore the traumatized child. She was just a maid. She had no medical degree, no psychological training, and no right to interfere in the tragic life of a Chicago syndicate boss.
And yet, as she closed her eyes, she couldn't shake the image of Noah’s face right before he struck her. He hadn't looked at her. He had looked through her—at the wall behind her, at the corner of the ceiling, at something terrifying that was hiding in the grand, immaculate rooms of the mansion.
Driven by a restless anxiety she couldn't control, Clara slipped out of bed at 2:00 AM, pulling a dark cardigan over her cotton sleep shirt. She stepped quietly out into the staff hallway. The house was dead silent, bathed in the pale blue glow of emergency exit lights.
She knew the rules. You never enter the north wing.
That was where the family lived. That was where Dominic’s private suite and Noah’s nursery were located. But as Clara crept up the back service stairs, her bare feet making no sound on the carpeted steps, she found herself drawn toward the heavy mahogany double doors that separated the east wing from the north corridor.
The doors were unlocked. They were rarely locked during the night because Dominic trusted his security detail and his own lethal reputation to keep intruders out.
Clara pushed the heavy door inward. It creaked with a faint, agonizing groan.
The north wing smelled different than the rest of the house. It didn't smell of lemon polish and wealth. It smelled of stale air, burnt toast, lavender baby lotion, and an underlying, sharp metallic tang that Clara couldn't quite place.
She crept down the hallway, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Passing several closed doors, she finally stopped in front of the nursery at the very end of the hall.
The door was cracked open an inch. A faint yellow nightlight glowed from within.
Clara pressed her eye to the gap.
Inside, the room was a disaster zone. Expensive wooden toys were smashed against the baseboards. Books were ripped to shreds across the carpet. And sitting in the middle of the wreckage, hugging his knees to his chest, was Noah.
He wasn't crying anymore. He was rocking back and forth, staring intently at the heating vent near the floor, whispering something over and over in a frantic, broken monotone.
Clara strained her ears, holding her breath.
May you like
"...the wall... the little box... it ticks... it ticks..."
Before she could process what the boy was saying, a heavy hand clamped down hard on her shoulder.
