Chapter 4 - Through the Solid Oak
The pounding against the pantry door stopped as abruptly as it had started, replaced by the sound of heavy, measured footsteps approaching from the main dining corridor. I held my breath, listening intently through the thick wood.
"Step away from the door," the man's deep voice commanded.
"Darling, you can't possibly believe her over me," the fiancée whined, her tone instantly shifting from vicious fury to high-pitched, fragile distress. "She's unstable. She's been muttering to herself all week about my family, about Florida, about things she has no business knowing—"
"I told you to step away," the man interrupted, his voice devoid of any warmth. There was a pause, the rustle of expensive fabric, and then a firm knock sounded against the pantry door—two measured raps, distinct from the frantic banging a moment before.
"Open it," he said through the wood.
I reached out, turning the brass latch and pulling the door inward just enough to let the amber light from the hallway spill across the floor. The man stood there alone, his black suit immaculate, his sleeves slightly rolled to reveal the dark ink sprawling across his knuckles. He looked down at me, his dark eyes searching my face for any sign of hesitation or deceit.
"You have it?" he asked quietly.
Without a word, I raised my hand and extended the orange bottle toward him, making sure the peeled corner of the white label was fully visible under the hallway sconce. He took it from my fingers, his warm skin brushing against mine for a fraction of a second, and brought it up to eye level.
His gaze scanned the exposed blue layer underneath the fraudulent white sticker. The sharp lines around his mouth tightened into a hard, unforgiving line. The tattoos on his neck seemed to darken as the muscle beneath them clenched.
"Where is she?" he asked, referring to the fiancée who was now hovering nervously a few yards down the carpeted corridor.
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"Waiting by the terrace," I answered softly, keeping my voice professional. "She tried to force the door just now. She mentioned Florida, sir. Just as she did at the table."
The man turned the bottle over once in his large palm, his thumb tracing the altered barcode. "Florida," he repeated, tasting the word as if it were bitter poison. He looked back down at me, a profound shift occurring behind his dark eyes—moving from cold detachment to a focused, dangerous clarity. "Stay inside the pantry. Lock it behind me. We aren't finished talking about what happened yesterday."
