Chapter 3 - The Cold Audit
By Wednesday morning, the atmosphere inside the Bellmore estate had turned glacial.
Vanessa Sterling had assumed the role of mistress of the house with terrifying speed. Dressed in a cream-colored Chanel suit and designer sunglasses pushed up into her bleached blonde hair, she walked through the marble corridors like an invading general inspecting captured territory.
She summoned Margaret to the breakfast room at 8:00 AM sharp.
“Margaret,” Vanessa said, not looking up from her tablet as she sipped her imported mineral water. “I’ve reviewed the staffing roster. Too many people here are complacent. That fat kitchen assistant—Maria—she moves like a turtle. Fire her.”
Margaret stood rigidly behind the table, her hands clasped in front of her crisp white apron. “Maria has three children, Ms. Sterling, and she has worked in this kitchen for twelve years without a single complaint.”
“Then she can find a job at a diner,” Vanessa snapped, finally looking up with a cold, superior smirk. “And while we’re at it, I want that maid—Ivy—reassigned to the basement laundry room. I don’t want her stepping foot on the main floor while I’m entertaining.”
“Ivy’s duties include managing the private guest suites and preparing Mr. Bellmore’s study,” Margaret countered, her voice shaking with restrained fury. “Mr. Bellmore specifically requested—”
“Mr. Bellmore is in Chicago,” Vanessa interrupted, slamming her glass down so hard water splashed over the rim. “And when he returns, he will see that I have brought some much-needed discipline to this chaotic mausoleum. Now, do as you’re told, Margaret, or you’ll be packing your bags alongside Maria.”
Margaret bowed her head, concealing the burning hatred in her eyes. “Yes, Ms. Sterling.”
As Margaret turned to leave, Vanessa added, “Oh, and make sure someone cleans out the west wing library. My father is bringing a group of investors over on Friday to discuss the harbor redevelopment project. I want all those dusty old history books cleared out to make room for display models.”
“Those books belonged to Dominic’s grandmother,” Margaret said, her voice tight. “Mr. Bellmore ordered them never to be moved.”
“Dominic won’t notice a few old books,” Vanessa waved her hand dismissively. “Just do it.”
What Vanessa did not know was that the west wing library was not merely a room filled with history books. It was the historical nerve center of the Bellmore organization. Behind the massive mahogany bookshelf containing Rose Bellmore’s collection of nineteenth-century legal treatises lay a secondary wall safe—a safe that could only be opened using a mechanical combination known exclusively to Dominic and the person who cleaned his private quarters every single morning.
Ivy Bennett.
That afternoon, while Vanessa was out shopping at a designer boutique on Michigan Avenue, Ivy quietly unlocked the west wing library door using her master passkey.
She wasn't wearing her usual apron. She wore a simple black turtleneck and dark trousers, her newly shortened hair framing her face with sharp, clean elegance.
She walked straight to the mahogany bookshelf, pulled volume four of Churchill’s memoirs, and rotated it three inches to the left.
A heavy click echoed through the silent room. The oak paneling swung inward, revealing the heavy steel door of the wall safe.
Ivy did not open the safe. She didn't need to. Instead, she reached into her pocket, pulled out a small flash drive, and plugged it into a concealed data port installed beneath the shelf—a port Dominic used to run encrypted diagnostic checks on his shipping networks.
She didn't need to steal anything. She just needed to copy the transaction logs of Vanessa’s family construction firm, Sterling & Sons, which had been quietly bidding on municipal contracts using forged Bellmore security clearances.
As the progress bar on her small handheld device ticked upward from zero to one hundred percent, Ivy looked at a framed photograph sitting on the nearby mahogany desk.
It was a picture of Dominic Bellmore standing beside his grandmother, Rose, taken twenty years ago on the very terrace where Vanessa now sat drinking imported water. In the photo, Dominic looked severe, unyielding, and entirely untouchable.
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Yet, beneath the cold mafia exterior, there was a shadow in his eyes—the look of a man who had inherited an empire built on blood and concrete, but had nearly lost the human soul of the home his grandmother had built.
“You left the doors unlocked, Dominic,” Ivy murmured softly, pulling the flash drive from the port and sliding it into her pocket. “And your fiancée is about to burn the house down.”
