Chapter 2 - The Investigation Begins
The heavy oak door of Vincent’s study clicked shut behind him, sealing him in a room lined with leather-bound books, antique globes, and a mahogany desk cluttered with encrypted phones and financial ledgers. He poured himself two fingers of neat bourbon, swallowing it in a single burn that did nothing to settle the strange restlessness vibrating through his nervous system.
He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out into the freezing Chicago dusk. The snow was falling faster now, blanketing the manicured Lake Forest lawns in white.
A three-million-dollar deficit in the shipping accounts, he reminded himself, ticking off the disasters of the day. A traitor in the inner circle. A collapsed merger.
Yet, for some infuriating reason, his mind kept drifting back to a crookedly stitched rabbit on a yellow sweater and a pair of mismatched shoes—one glittery sneaker, one plain white sock.
There was something wrong here. Something that didn't add up.
Vincent picked up an encrypted desk phone and pressed a single speed-dial button.
"Boss?" Marcus, his head of security and intelligence, answered on the first ring.
"Dig into Hannah Brooks," Vincent ordered, his voice cutting like a razor. "Everything. Where she lived before she came to Chicago, why she’s working domestic hours in my estate, and who approved her background check."
Marcus paused on the other end of the line. "Boss, she’s been with us for three years. Clean record. References from two suburban families. Her husband died four years ago—construction accident downtown. Left her with nothing."
"Check deeper," Vincent commanded. "People with clean records usually have something to hide, or someone protecting them. And check the security footage from the main hall at 4:15 p.m. today."
"The wine spill?"
"No," Vincent said, his eyes narrowing as a sudden memory flashed in his mind. "The man who bumped into her."
Ten minutes later, a secure tablet on Vincent’s desk chimed. A high-definition video file began to play on the screen.
Vincent watched the footage frame by frame.
Hannah was walking across the hall, balancing the silver tray with steady, practiced hands. Just as she approached the corner, a figure stepped out from the intersecting corridor—one of Vincent’s own junior logistics coordinators, a man named Paul Vance, who happened to be a distant cousin of the very real estate developer trying to buy out Vincent’s riverfront warehouses.
On the surface, it looked like an ordinary, clumsy collision.
But Vincent played it at half-speed.
He watched Paul Vance’s right shoulder drop intentionally at the exact moment Hannah passed. He watched Paul’s eyes flick down toward the silver tray, calculating the trajectory. And, most damning of all, Vincent watched the slight, arrogant smirk that crossed Paul’s face the moment the crystal glass shattered against the floor.
It wasn't an accident. It was a setup.
A deliberate humiliation designed to test the household staff, or perhaps to provoke a reaction that would create friction within Vincent’s estate.
Vincent’s fingers curled into a fist against the edge of the mahogany desk. The wood groaned under the pressure. Someone was playing games inside his house—games involving his staff, his property, and now, a four-year-old child.
Before Vincent could reach for the phone to summon Paul Vance to his study, a soft knock tapped against the heavy oak door.
"Come in," Vincent barked.
The door creaked open an inch. Hannah poked her head in, looking pale, exhausted, and desperately trying to maintain her composure. Ellie stood peeking out from behind her mother’s skirt, clutching her stuffed rabbit tightly against her chest.
"Mr. Caruso," Hannah said quietly, keeping her eyes fixed on the floorboards. "We packed our bags. We're ready to go. You don't need to fire me—I'm resigning. But please... please don't take it out on my daughter."
Vincent stared at her. For the first time, he actually looked at her—not as a nameless maid who had ruined an antique rug, but as a mother who had spent three years swallowing her pride in a house full of armed men just to keep a roof over her child's head.
"You're not resigning, Hannah," Vincent said softly.
May you like
Hannah blinked, looking up in sheer confusion. "Sir?"
"And you're not leaving," Vincent added, walking slowly around his desk. He stopped a few feet away from them, his dark eyes softening just a fraction. "Because as it turns out... someone in this house owes both of you a very serious apology."
