Chapter 2: The Weight of Steel
Morris’s hand rested on the little girl's shoulder, but she shrank away from him, pressing tighter against my side. I didn't stand up. I stayed kneeling on the cold asphalt, looking up at the guard. Morris had been with the estate for five years, reliable, quiet, almost invisible—yet tonight, his presence felt heavy, obstructive. His eyes flicked from the girl to the rear of the sedan with a calculation that didn't sit right in my chest.
"She didn't just wander, Morris," I said, my voice dropping an octave as I stood, gently easing the child behind me. "She came straight to me for a reason."
Morris adjusted his cap, his jaw tightening just enough to betray a flicker of tension. "Sir, the board members will be arriving through the front gates shortly. We can't have distractions. Let me take her to the staff quarters, and you can prepare for your address."
I ignored him. The glossy black paint of the sedan reflected the distorted lights of the mansion facade, the trunk seam looking darker than it should have. My instincts, honed by years of corporate boardrooms and quiet survival in a world of polished lies, told me that Morris was managing a situation, not solving one. I looked back at the little girl, who was watching my hands with agonizing intensity.
"Grant," I called out toward the side entrance of the garage where my assistant usually waited.
The side door clicked open, and Grant stepped out, adjusting his tie with a nervous twitch. "Yes, Mr. Vance?"
"Bring me the master key from the console," I ordered, not breaking eye contact with Morris.
Morris took half a step forward, his boot heel grinding into the gravel. "Mr. Vance, I must advise against opening that vehicle right now. There are protocols—"
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"Protocols don't cover a terrified child on my drive, Morris," I interrupted, my tone cutting through his professional calm. "Grant. Now."
Grant hesitated, caught between the guard's authoritative posture and my direct command. He looked at the girl, then at the trunk, before hurrying back into the shadows of the garage. The silence that settled over the driveway was heavy, broken only by the distant rustle of wind through the oaks and the ragged breaths of the child behind me. I walked slowly toward the back of the car, my hand hovering over the cold metal edge. The glossy surface mirrored my own tense reflection—a thirty-year-old man in a tailored suit who had no idea what he was about to unleash.
