Chapter 3 - The Basement Room
Once Marcus ushered a tearful Grace out the front door and secured her in the armored SUV, the atmosphere in the foyer plunged into complete, suffocating darkness.
I turned to my security guards, Sam and Leo, who remained standing by the entrance.
"Lock the doors again," I commanded. "Search the house. Make sure no one else is here."
Vanessa burst into tears, sinking onto the bottom step of the grand staircase. "Daniel, please! It was Mom's idea! She said you’d never find out! She said you were going to extend your contract overseas for another three years!"
"Shut your mouth, Vanessa!" Eleanor barked, her diamond necklace flashing under the crystal chandelier. "Don't say another word!"
"I want to see where my wife lived," I said quietly.
I walked past them, my heavy boots echoing against the marble floor, and descended the narrow wooden stairs that led into the basement.
The basement was a vast, damp space filled with dusty storage crates and old furniture. In the far back corner, behind a stack of broken lawn chairs, was a small windowless room that used to serve as a wine cellar.
I pushed the door open.
My breath caught in my throat. A cold, heavy knot of pure rage tightened in my gut until I could barely breathe.
The room was freezing. A single bare lightbulb hung from the concrete ceiling by a fraying wire. There was no bed frame—just a thin, stained mattress laid directly on the cold concrete floor, covered by a single threadbare blanket.
In the corner sat a small plastic bucket, a pile of worn-out cleaning rags, and a few second-hand books with water-damaged pages. On a tiny folding table rested a small, framed photo of me and Grace on our wedding day. The glass was cracked, but the photo was pristine—clearly wiped clean every single day.
Grace had spent two years in this dungeon.
Two years.
While I was earning twelve thousand dollars a week supervising deep-drilling infrastructure projects in the Middle East, thinking my wife was living in luxury, she was sleeping on concrete, eating leftovers, and staring at a cracked picture of my face.
I walked over to the thin mattress and picked up a small leather-bound notebook lying beneath the pillow.
I opened it. It was Grace’s diary.
October 12th: Eleanor took my phone today. She said Daniel requested a complete blackout because he’s moving in with his new partner in Dubai. My heart feels like it’s bleeding out. I tried to walk to the library to email him, but Vanessa followed me in her car and threatened to call the police, claiming I stole her jewelry.
January 3rd: It’s so cold down here tonight. My hands are too swollen to hold a pen properly. Eleanor said if I scrub the terrace floor tomorrow, she’ll give me a warm coat. I miss Daniel so much. I pray every night that he’s safe, even if he doesn't love me anymore.
April 19th: My hair started falling out today. The doctor Eleanor brought over said it’s severe malnutrition and stress. Eleanor cut the rest of it off with kitchen scissors so I 'wouldn't leave mess around the house.' I didn't cry. I can't let them see me cry anymore.
I closed the notebook. My hands were shaking so hard the leather cover rattled.
I stood up, tucked the diary inside my jacket, and walked back up the basement stairs.
When I stepped back into the glowing, opulent foyer, Eleanor and Vanessa were standing near the front door, whispering frantically to a man who had just arrived—Arthur Sterling, our family’s high-priced estate lawyer.
Arthur looked uncomfortable, holding a leather briefcase, glancing between Eleanor’s panicked face and my cold, unreadable expression.
"Daniel," Arthur began smoothly, holding up a hand. "I received an urgent call from your mother. I understand there’s been a bit of a domestic dispute regarding the estate management—"
"Arthur," I interrupted, my voice flat as stone. "You’ve been our family lawyer for ten years."
"Yes, Daniel, and I am here to mediate—"
"Did you oversee the transfer of my joint bank accounts two years ago?"
Arthur’s eyes twitched slightly behind his gold-rimmed glasses. He adjusted his silk tie. "Well, your mother presented a signed power-of-attorney document indicating that you had authorized her to manage household distributions due to your remote location."
"I never authorized a damn thing," I said, walking slowly toward him. "And you know it. You knew my signature. You knew my handwriting. How much did she pay you to look the other way?"
May you like
Arthur went pale. "Daniel, that is a wild accusation—"
"I have two words for you, Arthur," I said, leaning down into his face until he could smell the desert dust still lingering on my jacket. "Forensic audit. By nine o'clock tomorrow morning, the federal banking commission will have every statement you ever touched."
