Chapter 6: The Confession Room
The heavy mahogany door of the estate's east parlor clicked shut, sealing out the hum of the morning storm. I stood by the window, watching the rain beat against the leaded panes, my fingers still trembling from the confrontation with Dr. Marcus upstairs. Ethan had placed the disgraced physician under guard in this room until the county transport arrived. The morning sun was entirely blotted out by the slate-gray clouds rolling in from the coast, casting long, bruised shadows across the Persian rug.
Ethan paced the length of the room, his black button-up shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, the stark tattoo on his left inner wrist catching the dim light. He hadn’t spoken a single word since we left Noah’s nursery, but the furious energy radiating from him filled the space like pressurized gas.
“He’s talking,” Ethan finally said, his voice low and gravelly. He stopped pacing and looked over at me, his intense dark eyes softening just a fraction. “Marcus realized his Swiss accounts were frozen. He cracked the moment the sheriff mentioned federal wire fraud.”
“Did he say who else was involved?” I asked, stepping away from the glass. My black maid dress felt heavy and restrictive, a relic of a caste system I no longer belonged to in this house.
“The board,” Ethan replied, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his stubbled cheek. “My uncle Arthur and two of the senior trustees. They wanted Noah incapacitated so the foundation’s medical trust could be liquidated into private accounts. They figured a sickly, wheelchair-bound boy wouldn’t ask questions when he turned eighteen, and if he didn't make it that far... well, tragic complications make wonderful headlines.”
A cold shiver raced down my spine. I thought of Noah’s hopeful, honest eyes when he tried to stand on his own two feet in the hallway, unaware that the people feeding him his morning medicine were deliberately crippling him day by day. “He’s just a little boy, Ethan. How could anyone look at him and decide his life was worth trading for a ledger entry?”
May you like
Ethan walked closer, stopping just a foot away from me. The familiar scent of cedar and expensive cologne mixed with the damp chill of the storm. For the first time since I started working at the estate, the formidable mafia boss mask completely slipped away, leaving behind a man consumed by a terrifying, protective grief.
“Greed has no bottom, Clara,” Ethan said softly, his hand reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of dark hair from my cheek. His touch was warm, deliberate, and entirely grounding. “But they picked the wrong family to cross. Marcus is going to sing for a federal judge tonight, and the rest of the board is going to find out what happens when you touch what belongs to me.”
