**** What happens when a 3-year-old notices something all the adults missed?

The silence that followed Lily’s declaration was thick enough to choke on. Nearby patrons turned their heads, their cocktail chatter dying down into hushed murmurs. Lady Eleanor Vance, Marcello’s aging aunt and the nominal matriarch of the family, adjusted her diamond-encrusted spectacles from an adjacent velvet sofa, watching the exchange with sharp, hawkish eyes.

"That is quite enough," Victoria said, her voice dropping into a razor-thin register. "Claire, take your daughter to the service quarters immediately, or I will have security escort you both off the property. You work here at my discretion."

Claire’s chin came up. Though she lacked Victoria’s pedigree, she possessed an inner steel forged by years of raising Lily alone while managing Vance Manor’s most intricate historical files. "With all due respect, Miss Sterling, I am employed by the Vance Trust, not by you. Not yet."

"She’s right," Marcello said quietly. He did not raise his voice, but the authority behind it was absolute. "And if Lily saw something upstairs in the family wing, I’d like to understand what she was doing up there in the first place."

"She was sleeping in the library anteroom, Marcello," Claire explained, her voice steadying. "I had to supervise the ice sculpture delivery in the courtyard around eight o'clock. The library is secure, or so I thought. The double doors to the private wing were supposed to be deadbolted."

"They were deadbolted," Victoria snapped, her knuckles turning white around her silver clutch. "Which proves the child is fabricating the entire story. The residential suites have been sealed off since Julian's funeral. No one has a key except the security supervisor and myself."

"And me," Marcello countered smoothly. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a heavy brass keycard, rotating it between his long fingers. "So if someone was up there an hour ago, the electronic log will tell us. But why wait for the server report when Lily is offering to walk us there?"

"You cannot be serious," Victoria gasped, casting an exaggerated look of disbelief toward the onlookers. "You are going to humiliate me—Julian’s grieving fiancée, seven months along—based on the babble of a toddler who doesn't even know her multiplication tables?"

"If it’s babble, Victoria, it will take two minutes to prove it," Marcello said. "We walk up the stairs. You show us the nursery suite is undisturbed. Lily realizes she was dreaming. We come back down, I offer you a public apology, and you drink another sparkling cider. What do you have to lose?"

Victoria’s throat moved as she swallowed. For a fraction of a second, raw panic flashed in her cold blue eyes, instantly masked behind an expression of wounded dignity. "Fine. If you wish to make a fool of yourself to satisfy some petty, paranoid vendetta against Julian’s memory, lead the way. But when this turns out to be nothing, Marcello, I will demand your formal resignation from the board tonight."

"Agreed," Marcello said.

He reached down and scooped Lily up into the crook of his arm. The girl settled comfortably against his chest, her small fingers pointing imperiously toward the soaring double staircase that led to the manor’s third floor. Claire fell in step beside them, her jaw set, while Victoria followed closely behind, flanked by her private security detail—a broad-shouldered man named Damian who kept one hand tucked ominously inside his tailored suit jacket.

As they ascended the carpeted marble steps, the noise of the gala faded into a muffled drone. The third floor of Vance Manor was an architectural relic: vaulted ceilings lined with dark walnut paneling, long corridors hung with Flemish tapestries, and floors covered in plush sapphire-blue runners.

"Which room was it, Lily?" Marcello asked, keeping his voice gentle.

Lily pointed a small finger straight ahead, toward the end of the long, dim hallway where an arched oak door stood beneath an antique bronze sconce. "The room with the big blue rug. And the closet that eats clothes."

Victoria made a sharp, scoffing sound. "The west wing master suite. It’s Julian's private apartment. It hasn't been opened since the police cleared it after the accident. The laundry chute is in the dressing room—that's what she means by 'the closet that eats clothes.' The girl has clearly been snooping through floor plans or listening to the domestic staff."

"Or," Claire said, pointing to the polished brass floor plate near the entrance, "someone didn't latch the door properly when they left."

Marcello stepped forward. The heavy oak door was indeed sitting ajar by a fraction of an inch, the electronic latch failing to catch the strike plate. A faint scent lingered in the draft that slipped from the room—not the stale, musty air of a room sealed for months, but the distinct, powdery fragrance of high-end French perfume and the sharp chemical bite of medical-grade adhesive.

Marcello’s eyes narrowed. He looked down at Victoria.