Chapter 2 - The Fiancée’s Alibi
The second-floor drawing room smelled of French lavender and expensive espresso. Claire Bennett sat on the velvet sofa, her legs crossed elegantly, a silver teaspoon stirring a cup that didn't need sugar. When the heavy double doors banged open, she didn't jump. She simply looked up, her blue eyes wide with practiced innocence.
"Dominic! You're back early," Claire smiled, setting her cup down on the saucer with a delicate clink. "We didn't expect you until tonight. And why is security swarming the hallway? I tried to sleep, but the shouting—"
Dominic walked straight toward her. He didn't take off his leather gloves. He didn't offer a greeting. He stopped two feet from the sofa, looking down at her like a judge examining an insect under glass.
"Where is she?" Dominic asked.
Claire blinked, tilting her head. "Who, darling? The housekeeper? I told Nathan she had a family emergency. Her sister or something in Pennsylvania. Honestly, the staff turnover lately is dreadful—"
"She was in the wine cellar, Claire," Dominic interrupted, his voice dropping into a chilling register. "Locked behind a brand-new brass padlock. For three days."
The color didn't drain from Claire’s face instantly; it faded in slow motion, like ink dropping into water. But her training—years of high-society galas, boardrooms, and family dynasties—kicked in with terrifying speed. She placed a hand over her chest, letting out a sharp gasp of synthetic horror.
"A locked cellar? Good heavens! Are you telling me someone trapped her down there?" Claire stood up, smoothing the front of her silk blouse. "You think I did that? Dominic, look at me. I’m allergic to dust! I haven't set foot in that basement since we moved in. That must have been the new groundskeeper, or—or maybe Mia staged it for attention! You know how these lower-class people are, always playing the victim—"
Crash.
Dominic didn't hit her. He swept his arm across the mahogany side table, sending a tray of crystal decanters and porcelain cups smashing against the stone hearth. Shards of glass exploded across the Persian rug.
Claire screamed, stumbling backward against the sofa.
"Do not lie to me in my own house," Dominic snarled, stepping forward as she cowered. "You told Harper her mother went to Pennsylvania. You bought the lock. You held the key. Why?"
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Before Claire could scramble for another excuse, the heavy oak doors swung open again. Nathan stood in the doorway, his expression grave, holding a small, silver-bound leather ledger he had retrieved from Claire’s private desk downstairs.
"Dom," Nathan said quietly, stepping into the room. "You need to see this."
