Chapter 2 - The Paper Trail
The walk to Roman’s private study felt like a march to an execution block. Nora kept her hands folded tightly in front of her, squeezing her fingers until her knuckles turned white, trying to stop the visible tremor in her arms.
Vance opened the heavy double mahogany doors, stepped aside, and allowed her to enter alone.
The study was vast, lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a grand fireplace crackling softly in the corner, and a wall of bulletproof glass overlooking the misty pine forests surrounding the estate. Behind the massive desk sat Roman Blackmere. He had removed his suit jacket, rolling the sleeves of his crisp white shirt up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms crossed over a thick manila folder.
"Sit down, Nora," Roman said softly. His voice carried a deep, quiet resonance that seemed to calm the panic in the air.
Nora didn't sit. She remained standing near the leather armchairs, her chin tucked low. "Mr. Blackmere... if you're firing me, I understand. I can pack my things and leave within ten minutes. You don't have to call the police."
Roman leaned back in his chair, his storm-gray eyes locking onto hers. "Why would I call the police?"
"Because my background papers are fake," she blurted out, her defense mechanisms crumbling under his intense gaze. "I bought the identity. I paid a man in Indiana two thousand dollars for the social security number and the references. I know it's illegal, but I didn't steal anything from your house, I promise you."
Roman slowly pulled a second document from the folder—a printed photograph of a court record from Michigan.
"Your real name is Eleanor Vance," Roman stated calmly. "You were twenty-two when you disappeared from Detroit. You abandoned a junior nursing program, cleared out your small savings account, and wiped your digital footprint."
Nora’s breath hitched in her throat. She felt the room tilt slightly beneath her feet.
"You didn't fake your identity to steal from me, Eleanor," Roman continued, standing up slowly and walking around his desk. He stopped two feet away from her, keeping a respectful distance, his hands tucked casually into his trouser pockets. "You faked it to hide from someone."
Nora looked away, her eyes fixed on the oriental rug. "It doesn't matter. I'm leaving."
"It does matter," Roman said softly. "Yesterday, when I reached out to steady you, you didn't brace yourself for a collision. You shielded your skull. That is a defensive position learned through repetition. Someone hurt you, Eleanor. Repeatedly."
Tears pricked the corners of Nora’s eyes, but she forced them back with fierce determination. "You don't know anything about my life, Mr. Blackmere."
"I know that three months ago, a man named Arthur Vance—your uncle and former legal guardian—filed an unreported inquiry with two private detective agencies in Chicago," Roman revealed, his tone dropping into a icy, dangerous register. "Arthur Vance is a high-ranking lieutenant for the Moretti family in Detroit. And he has been looking for you for two years."
Nora’s knees gave out. She reached out, grabbing the back of a leather armchair to keep from collapsing onto the floor. Hearing Arthur’s name spoken aloud in this quiet room brought the cold terror of her past roaring back like a tidal wave.
"He... he found me?" she gasped, her eyes wide with frantic panic. "Is he coming here?"
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Roman stepped closer, his shadow falling over her, but there was no threat in his posture—only an immovable, iron wall of absolute protection.
"Arthur Vance will never step foot on this property," Roman said, his gray eyes burning with an unyielding promise. "You are in my house now, Eleanor. And no one touches what belongs under my roof."
