Chapter 2 - THE BILLIONAIRE'S FIRST QUESTION|
Eleanor Hawthorne entered the orchid house without removing her gloves.
At seventy-one, she remained elegant despite the silver hair framing her face and the cane she used to support her injured hip. She had built the family's original property empire alongside her late husband, and she possessed the kind of authority that required neither raised voices nor expensive clothing.
She stopped when she saw Nadia.
Then she saw the hair on the floor.
“What happened?”
Clarissa moved first.
“Mother, thank goodness you're here. Nadia had a little accident with her appearance, and Theodore seems determined to turn it into a catastrophe.”
Eleanor ignored her.
She approached Nadia and gently lifted a severed curl from the tile.
“Who did this?”
Nadia lowered her eyes.
“I did, Mrs. Hawthorne.”
Eleanor's fingers tightened around the hair.
“You have never been a convincing liar, child.”
Clarissa's expression hardened.
“Perhaps we should discuss this privately.”
“No,” Eleanor replied. “Apparently, private discussions are where you do your best work.”
Theodore watched his mother carefully. Eleven months earlier, she had suffered a fall that left her unable to walk without assistance. She had moved into a private residence outside Manhattan and refused every invitation to return.
Now she stood in his orchid house, examining a lock of Nadia's hair as though it were evidence in a murder investigation.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
Eleanor looked at him.
“Because someone sent me a photograph.”
She opened her handbag and removed a folded sheet of paper. Inside was a photograph of Nadia standing beside a young girl outside a neighborhood bakery. The girl had a bright smile, a pink backpack, and a missing front tooth.
Mila.
On the back of the photograph, someone had written six words.
Ask Nadia what her mother left behind.
Theodore felt something cold settle in his stomach.
“Who sent this?”
“I don't know. It arrived at my residence yesterday.”
Clarissa reached for the photograph.
Eleanor pulled it away.
“Don't.”
The single word stopped her.
Nadia rose slowly, Theodore's jacket still draped over her shoulders.
“Mrs. Hawthorne, please. My mother has nothing to do with this family.”
Eleanor looked at her for a long moment.
“Your mother's name was Margaret Vale, wasn't it?”
Nadia stopped breathing.
“How do you know that name?”
Theodore turned toward his mother.
“Mother?”
Eleanor did not answer him.
Instead, she asked Nadia, “Did your mother ever give you a small brass key?”
Nadia's fingers instinctively moved toward the pendant beneath her uniform. It was a tiny brass key on a thin chain, the only object her mother had left her besides a handful of photographs. Nadia had worn it every day for thirteen years.
She had never shown it to anyone.
“How do you know about that?” she whispered.
Eleanor closed her eyes.
“Oh, Margaret. What have they done?”
Clarissa suddenly laughed, but the sound was too sharp to be natural.
“This is absurd. Nadia's mother was a seamstress. Whatever sentimental trinkets she left behind have absolutely no relevance to our family.”
Theodore looked at her.
“Why do you know what her mother did?”
For the first time, Clarissa had no immediate answer.
Theodore noticed.
So did Eleanor.
Before either could speak, the younger maid who had held Nadia's shoulder stepped forward. Her face was pale, and her hands shook.
“Mr. Hawthorne?”
Theodore turned.
“What is it?”
“I saw something yesterday.”
Clarissa moved toward her.
“Beatrice, you are dismissed.”
The girl flinched.
Theodore's voice dropped.
“She stays.”
Beatrice swallowed.
“I was cleaning the upstairs sitting room. Mrs. Merrill was speaking on the phone. She said the maid's mother should have burned with the rest of the evidence.”
Silence filled the orchid house.
Nadia felt the floor shift beneath her feet.
“My mother died in a fire,” she whispered.
Beatrice nodded, tears forming in her eyes.
“I know. I'm sorry.”
Clarissa's composure shattered for half a second.
Then she straightened.
“This is ridiculous. A frightened girl has misunderstood a conversation.”
Theodore walked toward her.
“Perhaps. So we'll examine the records, listen to the recordings, and ask every employee what they've heard.”
“You wouldn't dare.”
He stopped inches from her.
“You cut a woman's hair in front of my staff and expected everyone to pretend it was normal. You have mistaken my patience for permission.”
He turned to his security chief, who had appeared at the entrance.
“Secure the estate's surveillance footage. Every camera. Every backup.”
Then he looked at Nadia.
“No one is firing you. No one is touching you. And no one is sending your sister anywhere without your knowledge.”
Nadia stared at him, unable to understand why a man she barely knew was suddenly placing his entire household between her and danger.
Eleanor reached for her hand.
“There is something you need to see,” she whispered. “Something your mother tried to protect.”
“Where?”
Eleanor looked toward the eastern wing.
The wing that had been locked since Theodore's father died.
“Your mother's workshop,” she said. “It wasn't destroyed in the fire.”
Theodore's face changed.
“That room was sealed twenty-three years ago.”
Eleanor nodded slowly.
“Because your father ordered it.”
May you like
Then she looked directly at Clarissa.
“And because someone was afraid of what remained inside.”
