Chapter 3 - Whispers in the Dark
By noon, the master bedroom of the Vale estate had been transformed into a fortified medical bay.
Dominic had refused to place Mia in the servant quarters on the third floor. Instead, he had laid her in the center of his own king-sized bed, surrounded by hand-woven Egyptian linens and guarded by four of his most loyal personal enforcers. Harper sat curled against Mia’s hip, wearing one of Dominic’s oversized black cashmere sweaters that reached past her knees, chewing quietly on warm toast with butter.
Dr. Mercer finished taping Mia’s fractured fingers and pulled his stethoscope from his ears.
“Severe dehydration, moderate contusions, and a hairline fracture on the left cheekbone,” Mercer reported in a hushed whisper, stepping away toward the fireplace where Dominic stood smoking a dark cigar. “Whoever hit her wasn't a professional interrogator, Dom. It was sloppy, emotional violence. Like someone trying to make a point or panic-striking when she wouldn't cooperate. Another twenty-four hours without water, and her kidneys would have shut down.”
Dominic blew a thin stream of gray smoke into the chimney flue. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscles jumped beneath the skin. “Can she talk?”
“Give her ten minutes. The IV fluids are working.”
As Mercer packed his bag, the double doors of the master suite clicked open.
Claire Bennett swept into the room, a vision of old-money perfection. She wore an ivory knit dress, her blonde hair falling in immaculate waves over her shoulders, smelling of expensive French gardenias and crisp winter rain. She carried a crystal vase filled with fresh hydrangeas.
“Dominic, darling!” Claire cried, rushing toward him with wide, horrified eyes. She pressed herself against his chest, burying her face into his shirt. “I just heard from the kitchen staff! Nathan told me what happened. Oh God, poor Mia! How could someone do this in our home?”
Dominic did not wrap his arms around her. His hands remained anchored in his trouser pockets, holding the unyielding posture of carved granite.
“You told Harper her mother went to visit family in Pennsylvania, Claire,” Dominic said evenly.
Claire pulled back, blinking through a veil of delicate tears. She offered a fragile, mournful smile. “Dominic, Mia told me she was taking the train to Lancaster! She said her mother was sick. When she didn't come back, I assumed she’d been delayed. And the padlock on the cellar… I swear to you, I only asked Nathan to secure it because two vintage bottles of Romanee-Conti disappeared last week. I had no idea anyone was inside! You don’t think… you can’t possibly think I would hurt our own staff?”
From the bed, a soft rustle of sheets broke the heavy silence.
Mia’s eyes were open.
Claire’s smile faltered, just for a fraction of a second, before turning into an expression of radiant relief. “Mia! Thank heavens you’re alive!”
Mia tried to sit up, but the pain pulled a sharp hiss from her throat. Dominic crossed the room in three strides, sitting on the edge of the mattress and placing a warm, broad hand against Mia’s shoulder to steady her. Harper immediately leaned into Dominic’s arm, finding instinctive safety against him.
The sight made Claire’s eyes narrow with an instant flash of possessive venom.
“Claire,” Mia whispered, her voice rough but steady. “Tell Dominic about the gray envelopes you were loading into Nathan’s trunk on Tuesday night.”
The temperature in the bedroom plunged to zero.
Claire let out a short, high-pitched laugh. “What on earth are you talking about? Dominic, she’s delirious. Mercer, what drugs did you pump into her?”
“They weren't envelopes,” Mia continued, looking directly into Dominic’s eyes, her amber gaze unwavering despite her exhaustion. “They were offshore transfer binders. The blue seal of the Falcone family was on the wax stamp. I found them when I was cleaning the study. When I asked Nathan why Falcone documents were in your private vault, Claire came up behind me. She struck me with a bronze statuette. When I woke up, I was chained to the cellar rack.”
Dominic turned his head slowly to face his fiancée.
The Falcone family was Dominic’s blood enemy—the syndicate responsible for the car bombing twelve years ago that had taken his wife, Isabella.
Claire backed away two steps toward the door, her tearful expression vanishing completely, replaced by a cold, patrician sneer.
“She’s a servant, Dominic,” Claire snapped, her voice losing every trace of its sweet southern cadence. “A common maid looking for a payout. Are you really going to take the word of an orphaned girl’s destitute mother over the daughter of your largest political backer?”
Dominic rose from the bed. He stood at his full height, six-foot-three of pure, lethal authority, his shadow swallowing Claire completely.
“Mia has worked in this house for three years,” Dominic said softly. “She has never lied to me. Not once. You, Claire, have been here for six months, and the cellar key is sitting in your makeup drawer.”
Claire reached for the brass door handle behind her.
“Daniel,” Dominic said without raising his voice.
The doors swung inward. Daniel and two armed guards blocked the hallway, their hands resting on the holsters beneath their jackets.
“Confine Miss Bennett to the west wing,” Dominic commanded coldly. “Take her phone, her laptop, and her jewelry. If she approaches a window, put her in zip-ties. And tell Marcus to bring Nathan Cross to the study.”
May you like
Dominic turned back to the bed. He leaned down and gently brushed a stray lock of dark hair from Mia’s bruised forehead.
“You’re safe now,” he whispered. “Now watch how I burn their world down.”
