Chapter 2 - Locked Doors and Ledger Pages
The name hung in the air between us like a physical blow. Dominic froze. The man who controlled millions in real estate and corporate equity looked suddenly unsteady, as if the ground beneath the high-rise had given way. His dark eyes darted from the silver pendant in his hand down to Grace's innocent face, searching for features he knew by heart.
"Julian has been dead for two years," Dominic said, each word forced out through teeth clenched so tight his jaw looked carved from granite. "My brother died in the Mediterranean. His effects were inventoried down to the last cufflink. There was no child. There was no wife."
"He wasn't dead when I met him," I said, my voice gaining a fragile steadiness born of pure necessity. "He washed ashore near the coastal town where I was working before I took this uniform. He lost his memory, Dominic. For months, he didn't even know his own surname until the fog started to clear. By then... by then it was too late."
Dominic stepped past me, his leather shoes clicking sharply against the polished floor. Before I could process his movement, he reached the heavy oak-and-glass double doors of his private office and threw the deadbolt. The metallic *thunk* echoed with terrifying finality. We were locked inside. No executive assistant, no board member, and no security guard could enter without his code.
"You expect me to believe a ghost story whispered by a maid?" he challenged, turning around slowly. The ring on his left ring finger caught the light as he gripped the edge of the desk. "Julian was meticulous. If he fathered a child, there would be records, legal instruments, something more than a sentimental trinket."
"I have them," I said.
Dominic stopped breathing. "What did you say?"
I reached into the deep pocket of my gray service apron and pulled out a worn leather-bound notebook and a folded hospital birth registration, both protected inside a clean plastic sleeve. I laid them carefully on the black leather insert of his executive desk. The handwriting on the top page was unmistakably Julian's—slanted, hurried, and distinct.
Dominic stared at the journal as if it were a live explosive. Slowly, his long fingers reached out and touched the cover. He didn't open it yet; he just looked at me, his gaze fierce, suspicious, and searching for any sign of deception.
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"If this is forgery," he murmured softly, "you won't survive the hour in this city."
"Open it," I replied, standing my ground. "Read the entry dated three weeks before his boat went down the second time."
