Chapter 6 - Shadows Across the Terrace
The silence in the study grew heavy, punctuated only by the distant chime of the grandfather clock in the main hall striking four. Miller's silhouette on the terrace finally moved away, his footsteps crunching softly against the gravel path as he retreated toward the staff quarters, abandoning his post. He knew better than to interrupt when the master of the house had a closed door and a locked expression.
"He's gone," I murmured, watching the empty terrace. "Your estate manager has more sense than you do. He knows when a storm is coming."
"Miller is a survivor," Lorenzo said, walking to the sideboard and pouring two fingers of amber whiskey into a crystal glass. He didn't offer me one. He knew I didn't drink when I was cornered; I needed my wits razor-sharp. "Just like you thought you were. But survival isn't about stealing away in the middle of the night on a private charter to Geneva. It's about facing the wreckage."
"It wasn't stealing," I said, turning back to face him. I walked slowly toward the desk, keeping my posture rigid, forcing myself to embody the elegance of the white gown I wore. "It was insurance. Every penny I moved was generated by my consultancy contracts, accounts you never bothered to look at until your auditors flagged the shortfall."
Lorenzo took a slow sip of the whiskey, his dark eyes never leaving my face. "Your consultancy contracts were underwritten by the holding company. Everything you touch, everything this estate stands for, is tied to the main ledger. You can't carve off a piece for yourself just because you're tired of the rules."
"I'm not tired of the rules, Lorenzo. I'm tired of being a ornament in your gallery." The words slipped out before I could stop them, raw and unfiltered. "The maid, Elena—she didn't just overhear a private conversation. She heard you talking to your partners about restructuring my trust into the general fund. You were cutting me out entirely."
Lorenzo set the glass down with a sharp *clink* that made me flinch. For the first time, a flicker of genuine surprise crossed his features, replacing the cold authority. "Who told you that?"
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"Elena was cleaning the transom window in the antechamber," I lied smoothly, building on the foundation of the maid's panic from earlier. "She heard every word. You weren't restructuring. You were erasing me."
"That's a lie," Lorenzo said, his voice dropping an octave. He rounded the desk, closing the distance between us until I could see the fine weave of his black tuxedo jacket. "The restructuring was designed to protect your personal assets from the federal inquiry into the board's overseas holdings. I was shielding you."
