Chapter 5: Across The City To The Downtown Office
The town car's leather upholstery smelled faintly of cedar and cold air conditioning as we wove through the afternoon gridlock of downtown. Outside, the gray glass facades of corporate towers slid past in a blur of wet asphalt and brake lights. Nico rested securely in his portable carrier on the seat between us, his small chest rising and falling in steady, untroubled rhythms. He had not made a sound since the foyer, sleeping as if the weight of the mansion—and the looming threats of the outside world—did not exist.
Mr. Varric sat stiffly beside me, his white shirt collar open against his throat, his dark trousers creased sharply at the knee. He kept checking his watch, the heavy gold metal catching the dim light of the cabin. For twenty blocks, neither of us spoke. The silence wasn't the heavy, hostile quiet of our first encounter in the hallway, but something more strained, charged with unspoken questions that neither of us dared voice aloud.
"You didn't flinch," Varric said suddenly, his eyes fixed on the back of the driver's head. His voice was low, cutting through the muffled hum of the tires against the wet street. "When those process servers pounded on the front doors back at the estate, and when the guards panicked... you just held the carrier and locked the side bolts. Most people in your position would have dropped the bag and run."
I kept my hands folded neatly over the white apron tied around my maroon uniform, my thumbs resting against the crisp fabric. "Panic doesn't solve anything when there's a child involved, Mr. Varric."
He turned his head slowly, his gaze heavy and analytical as it swept over my pinned-back blonde hair and the simple collar of my uniform. "You speak with a precision that doesn't match someone who cleans brass staircases for a living. And you handle an infant with an instinctive grip that most mothers spend months trying to master."
"Working in domestic service teaches you observation," I said smoothly, forcing my tone to remain flat and dutiful. "You learn to anticipate needs before they become emergencies. If I panicked every time someone shouted in that house, I wouldn't have lasted a week."
He didn't look convinced, but the traffic parted as we slid beneath the overhang of a high-rise office tower, cutting off his reply. The car glided to a halt against the polished granite curb, and the driver was out in an instant, opening my door. The damp city air rushed in, carrying the scent of roasted coffee and exhaust fumes.
We took the private elevator straight to the forty-second floor, stepping out into the hushed, minimalist expanse of Vance & Sterling. The office was all brushed steel, charcoal carpets, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gray expanse of the river. A receptionist in a tailored gray suit gestured us immediately toward a corner conference room without a word of introduction.
Attorney Vance stood by the window, a tall, impeccably groomed man in his late fifties with silver-streaked hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He turned as the heavy frosted glass door clicked shut behind us, his eyes darting past Varric to settle briefly on the portable carrier in my hands before rising to meet Varric's stride.
"Arthur," Vance said, offering a curt handshake. "You managed to get the boy out without a local injunction being slapped on the vehicle. Good. Because our position just became significantly more complicated."
Varric dropped into a leather armchair at the head of the glass table, gesturing for me to stay standing near the corner with Nico's carrier. "What did Eleanor's legal team file now? An emergency injunction?"
"Worse," Vance said, walking over to a mahogany credenza and picking up a thick folder filled with heavy cream-colored paper. He opened it, sliding a set of glossy black-and-white photographs across the table toward Varric. "They've filed a series of supplemental affidavits claiming that the child was intentionally abandoned by his biological mother less than forty-eight hours after birth, and that your household is currently harboring an unauthorized individual posing as domestic staff to conceal the child's true origins."
Varric looked down at the photographs. I didn't need to lean over to know what they showed: grainy security stills from a regional clinic, capturing a young woman with blonde hair tied back in a familiar knot, walking out into a rainy parking lot with an empty canvas tote bag.
My pulse hammered against my ribs, hot and sharp, but I kept my breathing shallow and even, staring fixedly at a brass pen set on the edge of the table.
May you like
Vance adjusted his glasses, his gaze shifting slowly from Varric across the room to rest directly on me. A frown tugged at the corner of the attorney's mouth. He picked up one of the photographs, held it up beside my face in the natural light of the high-rise window, and narrowed his eyes.
"Mr. Varric," Vance said slowly, his voice dropping into a dangerous, speculative register. "Where exactly did you say you hired this particular maid?"
