Chapter 2 - The Fire in the Ice
Roman didn't take Claire to the service quarters. He didn't take her to the guest wing on the east side of the estate, either.
He kicked open the heavy oak doors of his private suite on the third floor, barging into the warmth of his personal sanctuary, and laid her down on the velvet sofa before his fireplace. His hands were shaking—a phenomenon Roman DeLuca had not experienced since he was twelve years old.
"Dr. Vance!" Roman bellowed into his satellite radio, his voice cracking like a whip across the open air of the grand hallway. "Get up to my quarters! Now!"
Downstairs, the ambient murmur of ninety high-society guests sipping champagne shattered into absolute silence as Roman’s roar echoed through the atrium. In the grand ballroom, Vivian Mercer turned slowly, her crystal champagne glass poised near her red lips, a flicker of irritation crossing her flawless features.
Within ninety seconds, Dr. Harrison—Roman’s personal physician, who always attended the family’s high-risk gatherings—burst through the double doors, medical bag in hand, flanked by two of Roman’s top security men.
"Get her temperature up gently," Roman ordered, his charcoal suit jacket soaked through with freezing slush as he knelt beside the sofa, rubbing Claire’s frozen hands between his broad, calloused palms. "No hot baths. Warm blankets, intravenous fluids, now."
"Mr. DeLuca, step back and let me work," Dr. Harrison said calmly, unpacking thermal warming pads and a blood pressure cuff. "She’s severe stage-two hypothermic, but she’s breathing. Her core temperature is critically low."
Roman stepped back, but he didn't leave the room. He stood like a towering specter against the hearth, his jaw set so hard the muscles jumped beneath his skin. He watched as the doctor draped thermal space blankets over Claire’s soft, unconscious form. Her face was deathly pale, her full, lovely lips tinged with blue, her thick dark hair damp with melted snow.
A sharp knock sounded at the door. Mrs. Patel, the head housekeeper, stepped inside, her face white with dread and her hands trembling inside her apron pockets.
"Mr. DeLuca..." Mrs. Patel whispered, her eyes brimming with tears as she looked at Claire on the couch. "Is she... is she alive?"
"She’s breathing," Roman said, his voice dropping into a register so low and dangerous that the two security guards at the door visibly braced themselves. "Mrs. Patel. Look at me."
The older woman looked up into Roman’s storm-grey eyes.
"Who sent her to the carriage house?" Roman asked quietly. "The main cellar key was in my desk. The inventory was moved three days ago. There was zero reason for any staff member to cross the south lawn in a zero-visibility blizzard."
Mrs. Patel swallowed hard. She glanced down the hallway, terrified, before stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind her.
"It was Ms. Mercer, sir," Mrs. Patel confessed, her voice tight with suppressed anger. "Claire told her the cellar was locked. Claire told her her coat was in the staff quarters. Ms. Mercer... she threatened her, sir. She whispered something to Claire about her sister's medical bills at Harbor Ridge. I saw Claire go pale as a sheet. She didn't say another word—she just put down her tray and walked into the storm."
The room grew so quiet that the only sound was the crackle of the birch logs in the fireplace and the steady beep of Dr. Harrison’s portable heart monitor.
Roman didn't shout. He didn't throw anything.
He simply looked down at his own hands, which were still stained with the cold, wet grime of the snowbank where he had pulled Claire’s limp body from the verge of death.
"She threatened her sister," Roman murmured.
"Yes, sir," Mrs. Patel said softly. "Claire works three extra shifts a week just to pay the interest on her late father's loan. She lives on tea and toast, Mr. DeLuca. She gives every single penny to that rehabilitation center in Connecticut for young Lily."
Roman closed his eyes for three long seconds. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he saw Claire as he had seen her every day for two years: moving quietly through his home, always soft-spoken, always carrying herself with a gentle dignity despite the relentless condescension of women like Vivian. He had noticed her broad hips, her lush curves, her warm brown eyes, and the quiet grace with which she moved—even when he had pretended not to look.
"Dr. Harrison," Roman said, opening his eyes. "Will she survive the night?"
"Yes," the doctor affirmed, adjusting the IV drip hanging from a brass floor lamp. "Her pulse is stabilizing. The frostbite on her fingers is superficial thanks to your quick response. But she needs absolute rest, warm fluids, and zero stress for the next forty-eight hours."
"She stays here," Roman commanded. "In my bed."
Mrs. Patel blinked in surprise. "Mr. DeLuca?"
"Move her to my bed," Roman repeated, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Post two armed guards at this door. Nobody enters this room except you and Dr. Harrison. If Vivian Mercer so much as steps onto this rug, shoot her."
He turned on his heel, pulling a dry black wool coat from his wardrobe, throwing it over his broad shoulders, and stepping toward the doorway.
May you like
"Where are you going, sir?" Mrs. Patel asked, her heart in her throat.
Roman didn't turn back. "Downstairs. To finish Christmas Eve."
