Chapter 6 - Grace Wakes
In the quiet warmth of the east wing suite, Grace Williams stirred.
The heavy antibiotics coursing through her veins had finally broken the fever, pulling her back from the suffocating fog of delirium. She opened her eyes to the unfamiliar luxury of silk-draped windows, crystal wall sconces, and the steady, low hum of an air filtration system that didn't rattle with every gust of winter wind.
For a terrifying second, she thought she was dreaming.
She turned her head sharply, wincing as a residual wave of dizziness hit her, and saw Zoe curled up soundly on the velvet sofa, still clutching her one-eared teddy bear, surrounded by scattered crayons and black-and-white drawings.
“Zoe?” Grace whispered, her voice rough.
The little girl didn't move, breathing in deep, untroubled rhythms of absolute safety.
Grace pushed the thick quilt back and sat up on the edge of the mattress. Her clothes—the cheap, faded cotton trousers and oversized sweater she wore while scrubbing floors—had been replaced by a soft, clean flannel nightshirt she had never seen before.
Panic seized her chest. Where was Mr. Romano? Did she anger him? Was this some cruel prelude to throwing them out into the snow?
Before she could slip off the bed to find her shoes, the heavy oak door clicked open.
Grace froze, her breath catching in her throat.
It wasn't Adrien Romano who stepped into the room.
It was a man she had seen only twice before in the three months she had worked at the estate—Vance, the head of estate security. He wore his usual impeccably tailored dark suit, his silver hair neatly combed, his expression carved from granite. But something in his eyes looked wrong. Too sharp. Too tense.
“Grace,” Vance said, his voice a low, hurried hiss as he shut the door behind him and locked it with a small brass key.
“Mr. Vance?” Grace stammered, pulling the blanket higher around her shoulders. “I... I’m sorry I’m not downstairs. Mr. Romano said I could stay here until—'”
“Mr. Romano is busy,” Vance interrupted, stepping quickly across the room toward the bed. He pulled a heavy, suppressed automatic pistol from inside his jacket.
Grace let out a strangled scream, pressing herself against the headboard.
“Shut your mouth,” Vance hissed, his face twisting into an ugly, desperate mask. “Listen to me very carefully, girl. You and the brat are going to pack a bag right now. My associates are coming through the gardens in ten minutes. You’re going to walk out with them through the service tunnel as leverage, or I put a bullet through that kid’s head right now.”
Grace looked from the black barrel of the gun to Zoe sleeping peacefully on the sofa, oblivious to the nightmare standing inches away.
Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. All her life, she had survived by keeping her head down, by bowing to people with power, by taking the hits so Zoe wouldn't have to.
“Please,” Grace wept, her hands shaking as she reached out blindly. “Don't hurt her. Take me. Take whatever you want, just leave her alone.”
“Get up!” Vance snarled, grabbing Grace by the wrist and yanking her off the mattress.
Grace stumbled, her bare feet hitting the hardwood floor.
At that exact second, the overhead lights in the suite flickered once, twice, and then went completely black.
The only illumination remaining was the cold, blue wash of moonlight streaming through the frost-covered windows.
Vance froze, his pistol swinging toward the door. “What the hell...?”
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From the dark hallway outside, a voice cut through the silence. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It carried the absolute, bone-chilling weight of an executioner pronouncing sentence.
“Drop the gun, Vance,” Adrien Romano said from the shadows. “Or your head hits the floor before you can pull the trigger.”
