Chapter 6 - The Third Floor Sanctuary
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The third floor of the Vane estate was a place Nora had only ever entered with a vacuum cleaner and a bottle of lemon oil between ten and eleven on Tuesday mornings.
It was Julian’s private domain—an expansive, heavily fortified wing separated from the main staircase by a biometric steel security door disguised behind oak paneling. There were no maids quartered up here, no roaming guards, and no heating vents connected to the older nineteenth-century ductwork of the lower house.
At two o’clock that afternoon, Nora stood in the center of the guest suite directly across the private gallery from Julian’s master bedroom, clutching a single battered canvas duffel bag containing everything she owned in Lake Forest.
Behind her, the door clicked open. Mrs. Gable stood on the threshold holding a stack of fresh Egyptian cotton towels. The older woman’s lips were pressed so thin they were nearly invisible, her eyes darting from Nora’s plain maid’s uniform to the priceless velvet four-poster bed.
"Here are the linens Mr. Vane requested," Mrs. Gable said, her voice dripping with barely concealed venom as she set them on the dresser. "Two years of playing the quiet little saint in my kitchen, and all along you were waiting to climb the back stairs behind everyone’s back."
Nora’s cheeks burned, anger flaring beneath her exhaustion. "Mrs. Gable, you know me. Nothing like that happened—"
"Save your breath, girl," the housekeeper snapped coldly, adjusting her spectacles. "I’ve seen girls like you come and go in outfits like this for thirty years. You think because he put you behind a steel door that you’re special? Six months ago, before the car bomb downtown, his fiancée Camila used to sleep down this hall. Look where she ended up."
Nora froze, her fingers tightening on the strap of her duffel bag. "His fiancée?"
Mrs. Gable paused with her hand on the brass doorknob, a cruel little smirk touching the corner of her mouth. "Oh, he didn't tell you during your little midnight chat? Ask him what happened one hundred and seven days ago, Miss Brennan. And don't expect me to clean up after you up here."
The door clicked shut.
Nora sank slowly onto the edge of the velvet mattress, her mind racing.
One hundred and seven nights now.
Julian had whispered those words in his sleep. And this morning in his study, he had told her that one hundred and seven days ago, a car bomb had gone off outside his downtown club—the same day he had ordered the deep background audit on everyone in the house.
He hadn't been counting the days since he audited her file. He had been counting the nights since his fiancée died in that car bomb.
A soft knock sounded on the interconnected mahogany door leading to the central sitting room between their suites. Before Nora could answer, Julian stepped through.
He had shed his suit jacket and waistcoat, his white shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, carrying a heavy leather medical briefcase and a laptop. He took one look at her pale face and set both items on the mahogany table.
"What did Gable say to you?" Julian asked, his eyes narrowing.
"Nothing that matters," Nora lied quickly, standing up. Then, before she could stop herself, her gaze slipped to the faint silver scar along his knuckles. "I didn't know you had a fiancée who died in that bombing, sir. I’m sorry."
The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Julian went utterly still, his jaw clenching until a muscle jumped beneath his skin.
"Camila didn't die in that car bomb, Nora," Julian said, his voice dangerously quiet.
Nora blinked in shock. "She didn't?"
"She planted it," Julian replied evenly. "My younger brother, Matteo, was driving my car that night while I took a phone call inside the club. Camila was the daughter of Pietro Morelli—head of the New York syndicate. Our marriage was supposed to be a peace treaty. Instead, she wired C4 to my ignition and fled back to Manhattan on a private jet twenty minutes before Matteo turned the key."
Nora pressed a hand to her mouth, horrified. "Your brother..."
"Twenty-one years old," Julian said, staring out the window at the gray lake. "He wanted to be an architect. Never held a gun in his life. I made him ride with me that night so we could talk about his tuition in Milan. And for one hundred and seven nights, every time I close my eyes, I hear that ignition turn."
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Suddenly, the pieces clicked together in Nora’s mind with devastating clarity.
That was why Julian had looked at her file and couldn't stop thinking about her. Because while he had failed to save his younger brother from his world, Nora was killing herself slowly in the dark to save hers.
