Chapter 2 - THE EAST WINGDominic had closed the east wing fourteen months earlier.
At least, that was what he believed.
It had once contained Celeste’s art studio, two guest suites, a library, and several rooms his grandfather had used as offices decades ago. After Celeste’s death, Dominic had ordered the wing locked because walking past her studio felt like opening a wound every morning.
Now Oliver was pointing toward it as though something upstairs had been waiting for him.
Dominic turned to his mother.
“What does he mean by ‘no room’?”
Beatrice’s expression remained calm.
“How would I know?”
Oliver immediately whimpered.
Dominic noticed.
Claire noticed too.
Beatrice did not look at the child.
She looked at Dominic.
“You’re exhausted. The nanny has been injured. The boy has been screaming for twenty minutes. This is hardly the moment to build fantasies around two words.”
Claire rose slowly.
“Mr. Vale, may I take Oliver somewhere quieter?”
Beatrice gave a humorless laugh.
“You’re a maid.”
Claire flinched.
Dominic saw it.
But she did not look away from Oliver.
“I know.”
“Then behave like one.”
“Mother.”
One word from Dominic silenced the room.
He turned toward Claire.
“Can you calm him again?”
“I can try.”
Dominic nodded.
“Take him to the conservatory.”
Beatrice stepped forward.
“Dominic—”
“He stays downstairs.”
Something flashed in her eyes.
“Fine.”
Claire approached Oliver carefully.
She stopped several feet away.
“Would you like to walk with me?”
No answer.
She held out one hand without moving closer.
Oliver stared at it.
Then, slowly, he crossed the marble floor.
He did not take her hand.
Instead, he grabbed two fingers.
Claire smiled faintly.
“That works.”
Dominic watched them leave.
His son had refused to willingly touch nearly every caregiver for over a year.
Beatrice noticed his reaction.
“Do not romanticize this.”
Dominic ignored her.
He looked at his head of security.
“Marcus.”
A broad-shouldered man stepped forward.
“Yes, sir.”
“Who has keys to the east wing?”
Marcus hesitated.
“You. Mrs. Vale. House manager Mrs. Dunning. Security.”
“Has anyone entered it recently?”
“Not officially.”
“Officially?”
Marcus looked uncomfortable.
Dominic’s gaze sharpened.
“What does that mean?”
“There were occasional motion alerts.”
Dominic went still.
“When?”
“Over the past year.”
“And I wasn’t informed?”
“Mrs. Vale told security that household staff were retrieving stored items.”
Dominic looked at his mother.
Beatrice sighed.
“For heaven’s sake. Linens. Decorations. Your grandfather’s papers. You told me I could manage the house.”
“I told you the wing was closed.”
“You were grieving.”
“It was my order.”
“And I kept the household running while you spent sixteen hours a day at the office.”
The accusation landed because it contained truth.
After Celeste died, Dominic had buried himself in work.
He had told himself Oliver was surrounded by family, nurses, nannies, doctors, security.
He had told himself providing everything was the same as being present.
Now he wondered what had happened during all those hours he wasn’t home.
“Open it,” Dominic said.
Beatrice’s face changed.
“No.”
Everyone heard it.
Dominic looked at her.
His mother recovered quickly.
“I mean not today. Oliver is already distressed.”
“You seem unusually concerned about a hallway.”
“That wing contains your dead wife’s belongings.”
“And apparently something my son is afraid of.”
Beatrice lowered her voice.
“Think carefully.”
Dominic moved closer.
“I am.”
Twenty minutes later, Dominic, Marcus, and two security officers stood before the east-wing doors.
The brass key turned reluctantly.
When Dominic pushed the doors open, stale air rushed toward them.
Dust covered the corridor.
White sheets draped the furniture.
For a moment, he almost felt foolish.
Then Marcus crouched.
“Sir.”
Footprints.
Small ones.
Not fresh, but visible in the dust.
Children’s shoe prints.
Dominic’s stomach tightened.
They continued.
Celeste’s studio was untouched.
The first guest room was empty.
The second contained stored furniture.
Then Dominic noticed a narrow door at the end of the corridor.
He frowned.
“What is that?”
Marcus looked confused.
“Storage?”
Dominic had lived in the house for eleven years.
He had forgotten that door existed.
The knob was locked.
Marcus tested the security key.
It didn’t fit.
Dominic turned.
“Break it.”
Marcus stepped back and kicked beside the lock.
Once.
Twice.
The frame splintered.
The door swung inward.
No one spoke.
The room was windowless.
Bare walls.
One mattress.
A wooden chair.
A child-sized table.
There were scratches along the inside of the door.
Dominic walked in as though moving underwater.
On the table stood a plastic cup.
Next to it lay crayons.
A piece of paper.
Dominic picked it up.
The drawing showed three people.
A tall black figure.
A small boy.
And a woman lying on the ground.
Heavy red crayon covered her chest.
Dominic’s hands began shaking.
Marcus whispered, “Jesus.”
Dominic turned toward the wall.
More drawings.
Dozens.
A boy behind a door.
A woman crying.
A black dress.
A staircase.
And over and over again, the same symbol.
A circle with a line through it.
“No.”
Dominic understood now.
Not intellectually.
In his body.
A father’s primitive certainty.
His child had been in this room.
“Get the security footage.”
Marcus looked stricken.
“Sir, cameras don’t cover the east-wing interior.”
“Then hallway footage.”
“Archived footage rolls every ninety days.”
Dominic stared at him.
“Who authorized that?”
Marcus’s expression answered before his mouth did.
“Your mother.”
Dominic walked out.
Fast.
By the time he reached the conservatory, Claire was sitting on the floor beside Oliver.
The boy had stopped crying.
She was stacking wooden blocks.
Oliver knocked one over.
Claire rebuilt it.
Dominic stopped several feet away.
“Claire.”
She looked up.
One glance at his face and she knew.
“There is a room?”
“Yes.”
Oliver crawled behind her.
Dominic felt his heart break.
He crouched.
“Buddy.”
Oliver hid his face.
Dominic forced himself not to move closer.
“I saw the room.”
Oliver stiffened.
“I’m sorry.”
Claire looked at Dominic.
The billionaire’s voice cracked.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t know.”
Oliver peeked around her shoulder.
Dominic swallowed.
“Who took you there?”
The child’s eyes flicked toward the doorway.
Beatrice stood there.
Oliver screamed.
He grabbed Claire and buried his face against her neck.
“No!”
Beatrice froze.
Claire wrapped one arm around the boy.
Dominic slowly stood.
His mother’s face had turned gray.
“Dominic,” she whispered.
He moved between her and Oliver.
“You’re leaving.”
“This is my home too.”
“No.”
“Listen to me.”
“You’re leaving now.”
Beatrice’s composure cracked.
“You have no idea what that child saw.”
Dominic stopped.
“What did he see?”
Her lips parted.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
May you like
Then she looked at Oliver.
And whispered, “Something his mother made me promise he would forget.”
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