Chapter 3: The Secret Kept in the Closet
The second knock was harder, rattling the chain lock on the frame. “Open the door immediately, Mrs. Vance. We know you’re inside.”
Panic clawed at my throat, but years of living under the thumb of the Vance empire had trained me to find a cold, clear focus when cornered. I grabbed Thomas by the forearm, pulling him toward my bedroom at the end of the hall. Emily trailed right behind us, her small face pale with alarm.
“In here. Into the walk-in closet,” I commanded in a fierce whisper, sliding open the louvered wooden doors. Piles of winter coats and storage boxes lined the back shelves, creating a deep, shadowed recess. “Thomas, get behind the garment bags. Do not make a sound, no matter what you hear. Do you understand me?”
He nodded mutely, his pale blue eyes reflecting the dim light of the hallway as he squeezed himself between the wall and my wool coats. I slid the closet door shut, leaving a hairline crack for air, before turning to Emily. I knelt down, taking her small shoulders in my hands.
“Emily, listen to me very carefully. A bad man is outside. If he asks you questions, you tell him we just came home from the gala, we ate dinner, and we went straight to bed. Understand?”
“Is that my brother?” she asked softly, her gaze flicking toward the bedroom door.
“Yes,” I breathed, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “And I need you to be braver than you’ve ever been.”
Another barrage of heavy knocks shook the apartment door, accompanied by the metallic jingle of a master key sliding into the deadbolt. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I hurried out of the bedroom, pulling the door half-shut behind me, and walked into the living room just as the heavy oak door swung open.
Standing in my doorway was Marcus Vance, my former brother-in-law and the chief enforcer for the Foundation’s board. His tailored gray suit was immaculate, completely dry despite the pouring rain outside, and a cold, predatory smile played across his thin lips. Two burly men in black raincoats flanked him, their eyes scanning the modest living space with clinical efficiency.
“Elena,” Marcus said smoothly, stepping uninvited across my threshold and tracking wet mud onto my rug. “You left the gala in quite a hurry. We were concerned about your safety out in the storm.”
May you like
I forced my posture to straighten, hiding the trembling of my hands inside the pockets of my cardigan. “You have no right to enter my home, Marcus. Get out, or I am calling the police.”
Marcus chuckled softly, a dry, humorless sound, and took another step toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms. “The police? Elena, let’s not be dramatic. We’re only here to retrieve Foundation property that wandered off tonight. A very confused, very valuable little boy who belongs under our care.”
