Chapter 2 - The Scent Of Cedarwood
The grandfather clock in the grand foyer of Ashford House struck 6:00 AM. Outside, the blizzard had buried Lincoln Park in fourteen inches of pristine white snow, bending the ancient oak branches until they groaned under the weight. Inside, the limestone mansion was silent, cavernous, and cold.
Damian stood on the mezzanine landing, concealed behind the heavy velvet drapes that framed the arched windows. He hadn't slept a single minute. He had taken a taxi back to the mansion at 3:00 AM, washed the grime and smell of bridge smoke from his skin, and waited in the darkness.
Downstairs, the heavy iron service door clicked open. A gust of freezing wind swirled into the mudroom, followed by the soft, hurried footsteps of Elise. She was shivering violently, her cheap winter boots squeaking against the wet tile as she wiped them thoroughly on the mat. She took off her faded coat, revealing her modest gray uniform, and blew into her hands to warm them before touching anything in the house.
She reached deep into her pocket and withdrew the weathered, yellowed envelope Victor had given her. Damian watched from above, his heart thumping violently against his ribs. She held it with reverent care, treating the wrinkled paper like spun glass. She walked toward Damian’s private ground-floor study, looking over her shoulder with wide, fearful eyes.
“What do you have there, girl?”
The shrill, haughty voice shattered the silence like breaking glass. Odette Crane emerged from the shadows of the formal dining room wearing a silk dressing gown, her graying hair pinned into an immaculate French twist. Even at sunrise, she wore full makeup and diamond studs. Her eyes dropped immediately to Elise’s hands.
Elise gasped, instinctively pulling the envelope behind her back. “Mrs. Crane. Good morning. I was just... I was preparing Mr. Ashford’s desk before he came down for breakfast.”
“Don’t play stupid with me,” Odette said, gliding across the checkerboard marble floor like a serpent gliding across glass. Her manicured hand snapped forward, catching Elise by the wrist with astonishing strength. “What did you take from his desk? Show me. Show me right now, or I’ll call the precinct before you can take another breath.”
“I didn't take anything!” Elise protested, her voice shaking but her grip remaining steadfast. “I swear to God, ma'am, I didn't take a single thing! It’s mail. It’s private correspondence for Mr. Damian!”
“All correspondence goes through my office,” Odette hissed, wrenching Elise’s wrist backward with brutal force. “You know the house rules! You’re a maid! You clean baseboards and scrub toilets! You don’t touch mail, you don’t speak to Damian, and you certainly don’t bring filth into this house!”
Odette ripped the envelope from Elise’s fingers. The moment her manicured eyes landed on the handwriting—the distinctive, bold strokes of black ink writing ‘Damian Ashford, 1701 Linden Hill Drive’—every drop of color drained from her face. Her arrogant posture stiffened into rigid terror. Her lips parted, letting out a sharp, ragged gasp.
“Where did you get this?” Odette whispered, her voice suddenly devoid of its theatrical authority, replaced by raw, unvarnished panic. “Where did you find this? Tell me!”
“A friend gave it to me,” Elise stammered, rubbing her bruised wrist, backing away toward the kitchen door. “An old man. He asked me to deliver it to Mr. Damian. He said it was important.”
“You lying, thieving gutter rat!” Odette screeched, her panic morphing instantly into vicious fury. She raised her hand to strike Elise across the face, but before her palm could connect, a hand like a vice gripped her wrist mid-air.
“Touch her again, Aunt Odette,” Damian’s voice echoed through the foyer, low, calm, and terrifyingly cold, “and you will spend the rest of your natural life in a state penitentiary.”
Odette froze. Damian stood between them, tall, immaculate in his charcoal suit, his eyes burning with an icy rage she had never seen in him before. Elise stumbled backward, trembling, her eyes wide with shock.
“Damian!” Odette cried, recovering her haughty mask with sickening speed. “Thank heavens you’re down here! Look at what I found! This woman was snooping through your personal files! She took this from your private desk drawers! She’s trying to sell company secrets!”
Damian didn't look at his aunt. He kept his grip locked on her wrist until she whimpered from the pressure. Gently, with his free hand, he pulled the envelope from her fingers. He glanced down at the handwriting. He didn't need to open it to know what it was.
“Elise,” Damian said softly, never breaking his gaze from Odette’s terrified eyes. “Go to the kitchen. Brew a fresh pot of coffee. Put cedarwood chips in the foyer fireplace. And don't pack your things. You’re not going anywhere.”
Elise looked between the two of them, nodded rapidly, and practically ran toward the kitchen.
May you like
Damian released his aunt’s arm. Odette rubbed her wrist, glaring at him with indignant outrage. “Have you lost your mind? Defending domestic help over your own blood? Your mother would turn in her grave!”
“Do not speak my mother’s name,” Damian whispered, stepping into her personal space until she was forced to lean against the marble banister. “Because before this week is over, Aunt Odette, you and I are going to have a very long conversation about what happened the night she died.”
