Chapter 3 - The Little Artist
Morning broke over Chicago with a gray, unforgiving glare. Snow began to spit from the low clouds, dusting the iron gates and the manicured lawns of the Greystone estate with a fine, glittering powder.
Grace opened her eyes at 9:15 a.m., gasping as the reality of the morning rushed back over her like a cold wave.
She threw off the blankets, her bare feet hitting the hardwood floor before dizziness forced her to grab the edge of the nightstand. The fever was gone, replaced by a deep, aching weakness in her limbs, but her mind was clear.
The shoes.
The master’s shoes.
She had fallen asleep on the kitchen floor.
Panic seized her throat. She stumbled toward the door, throwing it open—only to freeze in utter disbelief.
She wasn’t in the staff quarters.
She was in the east wing guest suite—a room with vaulted ceilings, crystal wall sconces, and silk drapes that cost more than her annual salary. Sitting at a low mahogany table in the corner was Zoe, entirely dressed in a brand-new pink cotton sundress, happily coloring with a box of fresh Crayola crayons while a silver tray of scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, and warm milk sat untouched beside her.
“Mama!” Zoe squealed, dropping her blue crayon and running across the thick Persian rug to throw her arms around Grace’s legs. “You’re awake! The tall man said you were sleeping!”
Grace sank to her knees, clutching her daughter to her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. “Zoe... baby, where are we? What happened?”
“We’re in the castle,” Zoe whispered excitedly, pointing toward the door. “The king gave me crayons. Look!”
Before Grace could process the words, the heavy oak door clicked open.
Adrien Romano walked into the room. He had changed into a crisp charcoal suit, his tie neatly knotted, his silver-trimmed cufflinks catching the pale morning light. He looked every inch the ruthless mafia boss who controlled half the shipping lanes of the Midwest—except for the fact that he was carrying a fresh cup of black coffee in one hand and a plate of toast in the other.
Grace scrambled to her feet, pulling Zoe behind her, her head bowed so low her chin touched her chest. Her voice shook uncontrollably.
“Mr. Romano... I am so, so sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep. I swear to you, I’ll clean the kitchens, I’ll finish the laundry, I’ll pay for the shoes—”
“Grace,” Adrien said.
The single word cut through her panic like a surgical blade.
He set the tray down on the table, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He walked toward them, stopping a few feet away. His dark eyes weren't filled with the cold wrath she had expected for years—the terrifying aura that kept all the servants whispering in dark corners.
They were remarkably steady.
“You nearly died of pneumonia in my staff quarters,” Adrien said, his voice flat, devoid of anger, carrying only a heavy, resonant gravity. “And your first instinct upon waking up is to apologize for not finishing your chores?”
Grace swallowed hard, her throat raw. “If I lose this job, Mr. Romano... we don’t have anywhere to go. My husband—he left us with nothing. My brother is gone. This job is everything.”
Adrien looked at her for a long, agonizing moment. He remembered the look in Zoe’s eyes the night before—eyes that mirrored the exact same bone-deep terror of being abandoned to a world with no mercy.
“You are not losing your job,” Adrien said clearly. “In fact, your duties are changing.”
Grace blinked, her breath hitching. “Sir?”
“You are moving into the family wing,” Adrien continued, ignoring the shock that rippled across her face. “Dr. Sterling says you need at least a week of strict bed rest. Your daughter needs a safe place to sleep that isn’t a damp room beside the laundry vents. And as for your debt to me—” He reached down, picking up Zoe’s black-stained shoe-shine rag from the side table where Vince had placed it. “Your daughter already paid it in full.”
Grace looked down at Zoe, utterly bewildered. “Zoe... what did you do?”
“I shined his shoes, Mama!” Zoe announced proudly, holding up her still-faintly-black-stained fingers. “I was very careful!”
Grace covered her mouth with her hand, tears springing to her eyes. She wanted to scold the child, to explain the immense danger of what she had done, but before she could speak, Adrien turned toward the low table where Zoe had been coloring.
“What are you drawing, Zoe?” Adrien asked, stepping over to the coloring books.
Zoe scrambled back to her seat, picking up a purple crayon and pointing enthusiastically to a piece of white printer paper covered in chaotic, enthusiastic scribbles.
“That’s the big gate!” Zoe said, pointing to a series of jagged black lines representing iron bars. “And that’s the man with the shiny car!”
Adrien leaned down to look at the drawing. At first glance, it was typical three-year-old art—circles, lines, and colorful smudges.
May you like
Then his eyes focused on the details in the corner of the page.
His posture instantly went rigid. The air in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees.
