Chapter 3 - The Archivist and the Empire
By midnight, the grand library on the second floor of the Mercer-Blackwood estate looked less like a room for quiet reading and more like a war room.
Maps of the northern Illinois coastline, architectural blueprints of the mansion, and personnel files of every staff member, contractor, and family member were spread across the mahogany reading tables.
Emma sat in a high-backed leather chair near the fireplace, a cold compress pressed lightly against her swollen cheek. The door opened, and Victor walked in, carrying two cups of black coffee. He set one down beside her without a word, pulling up a chair opposite her.
“The perimeter sweep turned up nothing,” Victor said, rubbing the back of his neck with a gloved hand. “No external transmitters, no abandoned vehicles, no trace of whoever was receiving the signal. The device was self-contained on a short-wave burst loop. It transmitted for exactly four seconds the moment you moved the chair, then went dark.”
Emma took a sip of the bitter coffee, letting the heat steady her nerves. “Which means whoever planted it knew the exact security blind spots of this wing.”
“Or,” Victor added quietly, “they had help from someone inside.”
“Harold?”
“Harold has served my family for thirty years,” Victor said, his jaw tightening. “He watched my mother die in that very room twelve years ago. He guarded this house through federal investigations, hostile takeovers, and family feuds. If Harold is compromised, then no one in this estate is safe.”
Emma studied Victor across the flickering firelight. Up close, without the harsh glare of the dining room chandelier, the lines around his eyes were deeper than a man of thirty-nine had any right to have. He carried the weight of an empire built on steel, real estate, and blood—a dynasty that enemies had been trying to tear apart for decades.
“You don’t think he’s a traitor,” Emma observed.
“I think panic makes men do stupid things,” Victor replied, his gray eyes locking onto hers. “Just like curiosity made you move a chair you were explicitly warned not to touch.”
“I told you, it was crooked,” Emma shot back, a flash of defensive pride warming her chest.
A ghost of a smile touched the corner of Victor’s mouth—so fleeting she almost thought she imagined it.
“You have a dangerous habit of speaking your mind, Miss Lawson,” Victor murmured. “In my world, people with that habit usually don't survive past their first month.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m an archivist, not a courtier,” she replied smoothly. “My job is to look at old papers, catalog forgotten histories, and find inconsistencies. That chair was an inconsistency.”
Victor leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Speaking of your job... why did you really apply for this position, Emma? A woman with a master’s degree in historical preservation from Columbia doesn't usually bury herself in a fortress in northern Chicago unless she’s running from something. Or looking for something.”
Emma’s breath hitched. For a second, the temperature in the room seemed to drop. She had scrubbed her application clean, but men like Victor Blackwood didn’t hire archivists without knowing their blood type, dental records, and childhood traumas.
“I’m not running from anything,” Emma said carefully. “My father spent twenty years working as an accountant for Blackwood Enterprises before he passed away. He left me his journals. He always talked about the historical collection housed in this estate—the original land grants from the 1850s. I wanted to catalog them before they deteriorated.”
Victor stared at her, weighing every word, searching for the micro-expressions of a liar.
“Your father was Thomas Lawson,” Victor said softly, the realization dawning on him.
“Yes.”
Victor leaned back, his expression darkening. “Thomas died of a sudden heart attack four years ago. Right after our Chicago waterfront expansion was approved.”
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Emma’s heart skipped a beat. She had never told him her father’s employer before today. “He died of a heart attack while auditing the company’s legacy accounts.”
The silence that fell between them was heavy with unspoken ghosts.
