Chapter 5 - The Locked Guest Suite
The curving marble staircase of the penthouse felt colder the higher I climbed. Down below, the massive crystal chandelier cast a steady, muted glow over the dining table, but up in the residential wing, the recessed wall sconces were switched off, leaving only the amber wash of the city skyline filtering through the floor-to-ceiling glass. My fingers tightened around the heavy brass ring of master keys dangling from my belt, the small metal teeth clinking softly against each other with every step I took.
Julian’s quiet request from earlier in the evening lingered in my mind, a subtle weight that demanded sorting. Check the North Suite, he had said when the kitchen staff quieted down for the night. Make sure everything left behind is accounted for before morning.
The North Suite was designated for permanent high-status guests, usually reserved for Vivian whenever her extended stays at the penthouse stretched across entire weeks. Tonight, however, the heavy mahogany door sat slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness cutting across the polished parquet floor. I paused outside the frame, listening for any sound beyond the low, distant hum of the downtown traffic far below. There was nothing—only the faint ticking of a wall clock somewhere down the hall.
I pushed the door open with the flat of my palm.
The automatic lighting system flickered on, bathing the sprawling room in a soft, indirect glow. It didn't look like a room that had been peacefully vacated; it looked like a space abandoned in sudden haste. A large leather designer suitcase lay open across the foot of the king-sized bed, its interior half-packed with a chaotic jumble of silk garments, velvet straps, and expensive evening wraps tossed aside like discarded paper. On the marble vanity dresser, crystal perfume atomizers sat uncapped, their floral scents hanging heavy and sweet in the stagnant air. Gold-plated compacts and diamond-studded hairpins were scattered haphazardly among makeup brushes and discarded tissues.
I stepped further into the room, my sensible black uniform shoes making no sound against the thick wool rug. My gaze swept over the disarray, cataloging the items that indicated a frantic departure. Vivian wasn't just planning a temporary absence; she was clearing out, driven by the fracture in her carefully managed social standing that had begun downstairs when Julian refused to let her banish the child.
On the mahogany writing desk near the panoramic window, a heavy piece of cream-colored stationery caught my eye. A fountain pen lay beside it, its cap rolling halfway across the blotter. I walked over, drawn by the stark isolation of the paper against the dark wood. Scrawled across the top lines was a jagged, impatient script addressed directly to Julian. I could see only the opening sentence, the sharp loops of the ink expressing an absolute refusal to share a roof with unknowns, demanding that he make his loyalties clear before the morning papers reached the lobby.
Before my eyes could scan any further down the page to the specific threats she had undoubtedly laid out, a sharp sound cut through the silence of the suite.
It was the faint, unmistakable groan of old wood shifting under a sudden weight—the floorboard just outside the open door.
I froze, the pen still resting on the blotter, and spun around.
Vivian stood in the doorway.
She had changed out of the red silk evening dress from dinner and now wore a dark cashmere travel coat thrown loosely over her shoulders, her blonde hair pulled back into a severe, unadorned knot. Her dark eyes were narrowed with a cold, predatory focus, staring directly at me across the dimly lit room. There was no surprise on her face, only a deep, venomous irritation that she had been caught returning to the scene of her retreat.
"Snooping through private property," Vivian said, her voice dropping into a low, controlled hiss that cut through the quiet air of the suite much sharper than a shout. "I didn't realize the domestic staff's duties included rifling through personal correspondence."
I kept my chin level, keeping my hands empty and visible at my sides. I didn't step back from the desk, though my pulse hammered against my ribs. "I was sent to check the suite, Ms. Vance," I replied, keeping my tone steady and completely devoid of defensive warmth.
Vivian took two slow steps into the room, her heels clicking sharply against the parquet floor outside the rug. The cashmere coat swung open slightly, revealing the expensive travel attire underneath. She looked at the half-packed suitcase, then back to me, a cruel smile touching the corners of her mouth.
"You think a simple uniform and a few kind words downstairs give you a place in this house?" she murmured, closing the distance between us with predatory grace. "Julian collects strays out of some misplaced sense of aristocratic guilt. But strays don't last long in a penthouse like this. One word from me to the board, and you won't just be out of a job—you'll find yourself blacklisted from every decent address in the city before the week is through."
She stopped just an arm's length away, her gaze boring into mine with absolute hostility. The half-written letter lay less than a foot from my hand on the desk behind me, a silent piece of evidence neither of us dared to touch while the other watched.
May you like
"Get out of my suite," she whispered. "And if you mention to Julian that I came back for my things, I'll make sure you regret the day you ever set foot on this floor."
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