Chapter 2: Knock On The Door
The rain tapped a frantic, irregular rhythm against the single grimy window of my rented room above a laundromat on the wrong side of town. I sat on the edge of the sagging twin mattress, still wearing the black flats from the gala, staring at my bare hands where the white apron strings had left faint red indentations. My heart was still hammering against my ribs, a dull, bruising ache that wouldn't fade. I had packed my two suitcases within ten minutes of slipping out the back service door of the Sterling estate, knowing full well that Vivian Vance's reach extended into every corner of this city.
A sharp, authoritative knock rattled the flimsy wooden door of my room.
My breath caught. I froze, not daring to move a muscle. In this neighborhood, a knock after midnight usually meant the landlord wanting overdue rent or trouble looking for a place to hide. But as the knock came again—slower this time, deliberate and heavy—I knew instinctively who stood on the other side. No one else knocked with that specific, unyielding rhythm of a man accustomed to doors opening instantly at his command.
I stood up slowly, wiping my damp palms down the sides of my denim jeans, and turned the iron latch.
Arthur Sterling stood in the dim, flickering fluorescent light of the hallway. He had removed his tuxedo jacket; his white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing strong, corded muscles I had never noticed while serving him champagne. He looked entirely out of place against the peeling wallpaper and stained linoleum of the boarding house, yet he held his ground with an intense, quiet gravity.
“May I come in?” he asked. His voice was remarkably steady, though I could see the fine tremor in the hand resting against the doorframe.
I stepped back silently, letting the door swing wider. He walked into the cramped room, his presence instantly shrinking the space until it felt airless. He didn't sit down; he simply stood by the small round table near the window, looking at my packed bags, then down at me.
“You left your coat in the mudroom,” Arthur said quietly, his eyes searching my face with a piercing scrutiny that made me want to look away. “And you left a great deal unsaid in that hallway.”
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“I said everything that needed to be said,” I replied, my voice raspy from crying. “Your fiancée made her terms clear three years ago, and I honored them for the sake of the child. I didn't ask you for anything, Mr. Sterling. Not then, and not now.”
Arthur flinched slightly at my formal address, taking a half-step closer. “Three years,” he repeated, the math clearly working itself out behind his dark eyes. “Three years ago, you worked at the summer estate in Newport. That was when Vivian claimed—” He stopped himself, his jaw tightening as the pieces clicked together. “Tell me everything. Now.”
