Chapter 5: The Morning After
The morning sun filtered gray and weak through the high arched windows of the estate's main hallway, casting long shadows across the polished marble floors where guests had waltzed just hours before. The wreckage of the gala had been cleared away by the dawn shift—the crushed orchids swept up, the crystal flutes washed and stowed, the gold podium dismantled and packed into flight cases. But the tension in the air remained thick, clinging to the walls like smoke.
I walked purposefully down the grand corridor carrying a silver tray of fresh linens, my head held high despite the sleepless night spent comforting Leo. As I passed the double doors of the executive library, I noticed the heavy mahogany panels were cracked open. Inside, murmured voices rose and fell in tense, urgent cadences.
"The board is already asking questions about the livestream blip," a sharp female voice was saying—Mrs. Vance, the head of public relations, sounding thoroughly rattled. "A child running onto the stage shouting for a domestic worker during the premier philanthropy event of the year is a brand nightmare, Alexander. The gossip columns are already picking up the audio feeds."
I paused beside the doorway, out of sight.
Alexander’s voice cut through the room, cold and clipped. "Control the feed. Issue a statement that it was a disoriented guest's child wandering into the hall. Buy out any independent blogs that captured the boy's face. I want total suppression."
"It's too late for full suppression," Mrs. Vance replied crisply. "People heard the song. The lullaby. Music critics from the city papers are already tweeting about the conservatory soprano who vanished from the stage five years ago right before your engagement announcement. They're drawing parallels, Alexander. You can't scrub a viral audio clip from the internet in thirty minutes."
My heart gave a sharp, painful lurch. For five years, my past life as Elena Ramos, conservatory laureate and rising opera soprano, had been buried so deep I sometimes wondered if I had dreamed her. But the internet had a long memory, and a five-year-old child singing an obscure Andalusian lullaby live on a billionaire's charity stream was the kind of loose thread that could unravel a tailored suit.
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Before I could retreat down the hall, a soft rustle of starched cotton sounded behind me. I turned to find Mrs. Gable, the elderly head housekeeper who had run this household for thirty years, standing by the linen closet with a sympathetic, knowing look in her faded blue eyes.
"Let them panic, child," Mrs. Gable murmured softly, her voice barely above a whisper as she reached out and gently touched my arm. "A man like that builds his house on glass. Sooner or later, someone throws a stone."
