Chapter 4 - NIGHT AT THE GUEST HOUSE
The guest cottage was dark when Roman knocked softly on the door frame. He didn't wait for an answer, using his master key to step inside.
Clare was sitting on the edge of the living room sofa, an unlit lamp beside her. She had a heavy bronze candlestick resting across her knees, her eyes wide and alert in the dim light filtering through the window blinds. Owen was asleep on the adjacent armchair, wrapped in a fleece blanket, his small chest rising and falling rhythmically.
When she recognized Roman, Clare slowly set the candlestick down on the coffee table.
"You should be resting," she whispered, her voice tight with exhaustion. "The doctors said your lungs were inflamed."
"I don't rest when people are trying to burn my house down," Roman said quietly, stepping further into the room. He looked at the candlestick. "Nice weapon. Practical."
"It has good weight," Clare replied, a slight smirk breaking through her tense expression. "And I don't trust your security team. Half of them were hired by your stepbrother last year."
Roman’s eyes sharpened. "You noticed that?"
"I clean this house, Roman," she said, using his name again with that effortless, quiet confidence. "I hear who talks to whom in the hallways. I know which guards take private calls near the garage, and I know who receives thick envelopes from Julian's chauffeur on the first of every month."
Roman sat down in the armchair opposite her, leaning his elbows on his knees. For the first time in years, he felt outmatched in his own home. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because three weeks ago, you were a man who didn't listen to anyone who didn't wear a three-thousand-dollar suit," Clare said plainly. "You walked past me in the hall every morning without making eye contact. Why would you listen to the woman who washes your sheets?"
The blunt truth of her words hit Roman like a physical blow. He looked down at his polished boots, feeling a strange, unfamiliar prick of shame.
"You're right," Roman acknowledged smoothly, looking back up into her hazel eyes. "I was blind. But I'm paying attention now."
"Good," Clare said. "Because Julian isn't done. He was in the east wing two hours before the gas started. I saw him near the main HVAC shutoff valve with an industrial duffel bag. I thought he was checking on the pipe insulation."
Roman felt the pieces of the puzzle lock into place. "He planted the canister himself. He didn't trust an assassin to do it."
"He wanted to be certain," Clare said. "And tomorrow morning, he’s going to pretend he’s saving the company from a tragedy."
"He thinks he’s going to step into my shoes," Roman said. He stood up and held out his hand to her. "Pack Owen's things. You're moving to the safe room beneath the main estate."
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Clare looked at his extended hand, then up at his face. "Are we hiding?"
"No," Roman said, his eyes burning with a dark, vengeful light. "We're setting a trap."
