Chapter 7 - Shadows In The Private Dressing Suite
The heavy mahogany doors of the grand foyer had barely clicked shut behind Marcus Vance before I turned on my heel, taking the sweeping gold-trimmed staircase two steps at a time. The echoes of his veiled threats—about board oversight, public scandals, and the sudden appearance of an infant in my custody—still hung in the dry air of the hallway. But right now, the foundation towers and corporate proxies meant nothing compared to the quiet hum of tension waiting upstairs.
I pushed open the door to the private dressing suite just off the master bedroom. The room was bathed in the amber glow of a single brass table lamp, casting long, fractured shadows across the white marble molding and the polished cherrywood wardrobes.
Elena stood by the tall, draped windows, her maroon and white maid uniform slightly rumpled from hours of tending to the boy. In the center of the mahogany crib, Nico lay fast asleep, his chest rising and falling in rhythmic, silent breaths wrapped in his light blue onesie. He looked entirely undisturbed by the storm brewing outside our walls.
Elena didn't turn around immediately when I entered, but I saw the tight set of her shoulders. On the cushioned bench beside her, a dark canvas duffel bag lay half-zipped, a few folded items of civilian clothing visible beneath the zipper.
"He's still sleeping," Elena said softly, her voice barely carrying across the room as she smoothed a hand over the edge of the crib. "The silence didn't break. Even with shouting downstairs, he hasn't stirred."
"Marcus is pushing harder than I anticipated," I said, walking further into the room and running a hand through my tousled dark brown hair. My unbuttoned white dress shirt felt heavy and restrictive against my skin. I stopped a few feet away from her, keeping my distance so as not to crowd her space, though every instinct urged me to close the gap. "He didn't just come to make threats about the charity gala. He's weaponizing the quarterly audit. He knows the foundation's liquidity is tied up in the West Wing expansion, and he's planning an emergency board vote for Friday morning."
Elena turned then, her dark eyes searching my face under the amber light. There was no fear in her expression now—only a hardened, protective resolve that matched my own. "And my presence here? Did he see you bring me up from the foyer?"
"Not directly. I managed to steer him toward the East Parlor before he could wander back toward the domestic quarters," I admitted, exhaling a slow breath. "But Marcus isn't stupid. If he suspects I'm hiding a child, he'll tear through my household staff records by morning. He'll find out you haven't logged a standard shift in three days."
She looked down at the half-packed duffel bag, her fingers grazing the sturdy canvas handle. "Then we shouldn't wait for him to dig. I've been thinking about this since the moment you handed Nico to me in the foyer. If they trace the birth registry, the legal exposure doesn't just fall on the foundation—it falls on both of us. Or worse, they could try to take him."
"I won't let anyone take him," I said, my voice dropping an octave, carrying an absolute finality that made the air between us snap with static.
I stepped past her toward the tall casement window that overlooked the rear courtyard. The iron shutters were unlatched, rattling softly against the stone facade as a cool evening draft swept in from the gardens. Marcus's threat to call local reporters meant we couldn't rely on the estate's usual security protocols; anyone could be a paid informant or an outside proxy.
"Help me secure these," I murmured, reaching for the heavy iron latch of the window.
Elena moved beside me without hesitation. The scent of faint lavender and clean linen drifted off her maroon uniform as she reached across my arm to grab the opposite latch. For a heartbeat, our shoulders brushed. The physical closeness was immediate, sharp, and entirely uncalculated. In the suffocating quiet of the dressing suite, every breath felt amplified.
I pulled the iron bar down, locking the heavy glass panes into place against the rising wind, while Elena reached up to secure the deadbolt at the top frame. Her hand brushed against my forearm, lingering for a fraction of a second against my stubble-shadowed jawline as she adjusted her footing on the hardwood floor.
"The latch is rusted," she whispered, her face inches from mine, the tension between us shifting from panic to a quiet, undeniable solidarity. "It needs oiling."
"I'll take care of it," I replied, my gaze dropping briefly to her lips before meeting her steady, intense eyes. "Just like I'll take care of Marcus. But if we leave the estate tonight, we need a place where his proxies can't track the foundation's corporate vehicles."
Elena pulled her hand back slowly, the chill of the evening air rushing back into the space between us. She zipped the duffel bag the rest of the way, the metallic click echoing sharply in the quiet room.
"My family's old farmhouse," she said quietly, her voice steady. "Outside the county line. No one goes out there anymore. It's safe."
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I looked down at Nico, still fast asleep in his blue onesie, completely unaware of the boardrooms and legal traps waiting for us outside these walls. The danger was real, palpable, and pressing down on us from every side, but as I looked back at Elena, I knew the choice had already been made.
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