Chapter 6: A Visitor At The Iron Gates
Afternoon light filtered through the tall, arched windows of the grand foyer, casting long amber beams across the polished white marble floors. I moved rhythmically, pushing the heavy cotton dust mop across the stone, listening to the soft scrape of bristles against the polished surface. Upstairs, the mansion was entirely silent, the heavy oak doors of the upper hallway closed tight against the afternoon. Mateo remained behind his door, isolated, while Richard was sequestered in his study on the opposite wing.
A sharp, low buzz from the intercom panel near the service corridor broke the quiet. I paused, resting my hands on the wooden handle of the mop. A moment later, the low hum of an electric motor drifted up from the gravel driveway outside the heavy iron front gates, followed by the crunch of tires slowing to a halt.
From the upper landing, a door clicked. Richard appeared at the wrought-iron railing of the curved staircase, his dark suit jacket unbuttoned at the cuff, his expression tightening into an immediate, sharp frown. He didn't look down at me; his eyes were fixed entirely on the heavy mahogany front doors.
"Valeria," Richard said, his voice dropping into that controlled, flat register that always made the hairs on my arms stand up. "Stay where you are."
He descended the stairs with swift, measured strides, his polished shoes clicking sharply against the marble. Before I could even reposition the mop, the front doorbell chimed—a deep, resonant tone that echoed through the empty foyer.
Richard didn't answer it immediately. He straightened his white dress shirt, ran a hand through his dark hair, and then pulled the heavy door open just enough to create a narrow gap.
"May I help you?" Richard's voice was polite, coated in an artificial warmth that failed to reach his eyes.
"Richard," an older woman's voice replied, clear and sharp through the opening. It was a voice carrying the weight of age and authority, entirely unbothered by his tone. "Open the gate, please. I've driven an hour to see my grandson."
I kept my gaze lowered toward the marble floor, but my hands tightened around the wooden handle. Through the narrow gap in the doorway, I caught a glimpse of a weathered, elegant face, silver hair pulled back in a neat bun, wearing a tailored navy coat. It was Mrs. Vance, though I only knew the name from the mail that occasionally landed on the console table. Mateo’s maternal grandmother.
"This is not a convenient time, Eleanor," Richard said, his body blocking the threshold entirely. He shifted his weight, his shoulders squaring to form an impenetrable barrier between the foyer and the outside world. "Mateo is resting. He has been unwell."
"Unwell," she repeated, the single word dripping with skepticism and a cold, hard anger. "He hasn't answered my calls in four days, Richard. Neither has the girl you dismissed last month. Now let me inside, or I will have the county sheriff down this driveway before you can close this door again."
Richard's jaw tightened so hard I could see the muscle jump beneath his skin. "You are not helping him by manufacturing a crisis. The boy is grieving. He needs stability, quiet, and order. Coming here unannounced and making demands at my front door achieves nothing."
"Your idea of order is a fortress," Eleanor said, stepping closer to the gap, trying to peer past his shoulder into the foyer. Her sharp eyes briefly flicked toward where I stood holding the mop. "Is the boy even eating? Look at me, Richard. Let me see Mateo with my own eyes, and I will leave quietly."
"He is fine," Richard lied smoothly, his voice dropping an octave, steady and unyielding. "He is upstairs, asleep. Under a doctor's care. There is nothing for you here, Eleanor. I suggest you drive back before dark."
"You are hiding something behind these walls, Richard, just like you did after—"
Richard slammed the door shut.
The heavy wood echoed through the foyer, cutting off her sentence mid-word. For a long, suffocating moment, the mansion was entirely silent again, save for the hum of the wall sconces and the faint ticking of the grandfather clock near the library.
Richard stood frozen with his back to the door, his chest rising and falling beneath his white dress shirt in slow, controlled breaths. Slowly, he turned around. His eyes swept across the polished marble, bypassing the console table and the framed family photograph, landing directly on me.
May you like
His gaze was heavy, cold, and assessing. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. The unspoken accusation hung thick in the air between us: he knew I had heard every word, and he suspected I was the one who had opened the door for Eleanor Vance to begin with.
Without a word, Richard turned on his heel and walked toward his study, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him with finality.
