Chapter 6 - Shadows in the East Wing
The grandfather clock in the dim hallway struck midnight, its heavy chimes echoing through the polished marble corridor of the East Wing. I walked briskly, my soft-soled shoes making no sound against the Persian runner as I carried a stack of fresh linens toward the linen closet. The encounter with Julian Vance at the formal dinner still hummed in my veins like an electric current. Ronan had shielded me, but the protection came with an invisible chain. I was no longer just the maid who carried a secret; I was a piece on a board where dangerous men played for keeps.
As I reached the corner of the gallery, a shadow detached itself from the mahogany paneling. I gasped, stumbling backward against the wall, dropping a folded pillowcase that fluttered quietly to the floor.
"You're walking late, Sadie," a deep voice murmured.
Ronan stepped out of the shadows. The harsh amber wall sconces caught the sharp lines of his face and the dark ink crawling up his neck from the open collar of his black shirt. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket; his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his forearms, exposing lean muscle and the subtle tension in his frame.
"I have duties to finish," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the sudden flutter of panic in my chest. I bent down to retrieve the pillowcase, but Ronan’s hand beat me to it. He picked up the white linen, his fingers brushing against mine. The contact was brief, yet it sent a sharp jolt through my skin.
He didn't hand it over immediately. Instead, he straightened, holding the fabric loosely in one hand while his dark eyes locked onto mine. "Vance watches this house like a hawk. Every time you step outside the Matriarch's rooms, you're a target. Why didn't you tell him where you got the tattoo?"
"Because it wasn't mine to tell," I whispered, lifting my chin. "Just like your brother's promise wasn't yours to break."
Ronan flinched—a micro-expression so subtle most people would have missed it. His jaw tightened, and a dangerous glint flashed in his eyes. "You speak of him as if you knew him well."
May you like
"I knew him at the end," I said, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper. From my apron pocket, I slid out a small, worn leather-bound journal—the very one his brother had handed me before his exile—and held it out between us. "He told me to give this to your mother. But maybe you need to read it first."
Ronan stared at the journal as if it were a loaded weapon. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out and took it from my hand. The silence between us stretched, heavy with decades of family ghosts.
