Chapter 3 - The Confession of the StaffMaria led me down to the basement butler’s pantry—a windowless, soundproofed room where the estate’s silver service was polished and staff schedules were managed. The air smelled of brass polish and old paper.
She set her mug down on the mahogany table, her hands trembling slightly as she folded them in front of her apron.
"I wanted to tell you, Mr. Alex," Maria began, her voice thick with guilt. "God as my witness, I tried. Two months ago, after you flew to Chicago for the summit, I started noticing things missing from Miss Sarah’s jewelry box. Then Lily came down to the kitchen with bruises on her wrists—the exact kind of marks you get when someone drags a child by the arm."
My jaw tightened so hard my teeth ached. "Why didn't you come to me directly? Why didn't you bypass the guards and call my private line?"
Maria looked up, her dark eyes flashing with a mix of fear and righteous anger. "And tell you what? That the woman you were planning to marry was a monster? Miss Claire had already poisoned the well, Mr. Alex. She had your ear. Every time I tried to hint that she wasn't suited for this house, you looked at me like I was just an overprotective servant jealous of your new bride. She made you believe everyone was trying to isolate you."
The brutal truth of her words struck me like a physical blow. She was right. Claire had played me like a master puppeteer, isolating me from my staff by whispering that everyone was plotting against my authority, while simultaneously tormenting my children to break their spirit.
"She told the girls that if they cried, if they told you about the rules she set, you would send them away to a boarding school in Switzerland," Maria continued, her voice breaking. "She told them you didn't love them anymore because they were 'annoying burdens.' Imagine what that does to a six-year-old girl, Mr. Alex. Lily stopped asking for you at bedtime three weeks ago. She thought you didn't want to come home."
I slammed my fist down onto the polished mahogany table. The heavy wood groaned, and the silver tea strainer rattled against its saucer.
"She’s done," I snarled, the suppressed rage of a cornered predator finally breaking through my control. "By tomorrow morning, she won't just be out of this house; she’ll be facing twenty years in a federal penitentiary for corporate espionage and extortion."
"Arrest isn't enough for what she put those girls through," Maria said quietly, stepping closer to me. "You want to destroy her? Don't just take her money. Take her illusion of safety. Make her realize that the monster she sold her soul to—Victor Vance—is far more dangerous than she ever imagined."
I looked at Maria, seeing not just a housekeeper, but a strategist. In my world, loyalty was the rarest currency on earth, and Maria had just proven she was richer than any bank in Zurich.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Claire thinks she’s playing a lone hand," Maria explained, leaning in. "She meets her contacts on Tuesday mornings at the Montage hotel in Beverly Hills under the guise of 'bridal dress fittings.' But she keeps a physical ledger—a black leather notebook locked in her private vanity drawer upstairs. She writes down every account number, every threat from Vance, and every offshore wire instruction so she doesn't forget the details when she extorts you."
My eyes narrowed. "A physical ledger. In the master suite."
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"Locked with a digital keypad," Maria nodded. "Only she knows the code. But while she’s at her 'charity luncheon' tomorrow at noon, the house will be empty except for the cleaning staff. You can get to it."
"No," I smiled slowly, a dark, calculated plan forming in my mind. "I won't just steal the ledger. I’m going to let her hand it to me herself."
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