Chapter 3 - The Gathering Storm in the East WingBy noon, the atmosphere inside DeLuca House was no longer that of a post-Christmas celebration; it felt like a waiting execution chamber.
Roman had ordered me to remain in the master suite under the strict supervision of Dr. Vance and Mrs. Patel, but my mind was racing too fast for sleep. Dressed in a pair of soft cashmere sweatpants and an oversized knit sweater Roman had somehow procured for me from his private wardrobe, I paced restlessly near the suite's private balcony.
Downstairs, in the sprawling east wing drawing room, the real reckoning was taking place.
I didn't need to be there to imagine it. Word of what happened had rippled through the staff like wildfire. The security footage from the service hall corridor—showing Vivian cornering me, demanding the wine, and mocking my coatless state—had been pulled by Roman’s head of security within twenty minutes of sunrise.
A sharp knock sounded at the mahogany double doors of the suite.
"Come in," I called out, my voice steadying.
The door opened to reveal Mrs. Patel, her face pale and lined with worry. She carried a tray with warm chicken broth and crackers, setting it down on the bedside table with trembling hands.
"Oh, child," Mrs. Patel whispered, taking my hands in hers. "When I saw Mr. DeLuca carry you out of that snow yesterday... I thought my heart would stop. You are so brave, Claire."
"I'm not brave, Mrs. Patel," I said bitterly. "I'm just tired."
"Well, the house is upside down right now," Mrs. Patel muttered, glancing over her shoulder to make sure the hallway was clear. "Mr. DeLuca summoned everyone to the east wing drawing room at eleven. Family, guests, senior staff. Nobody is allowed to leave. Miss Mercer was screaming so loud down the hall they could hear her in the library."
My breath hitched. "Is Roman... what is he doing to her?"
"He isn't yelling, Claire. That’s what’s terrifying about him," Mrs. Patel said, squeezing my fingers. "When Roman DeLuca yells, you know he’s angry. When he speaks in that quiet, freezing tone... that’s when people's lives get dismantled."
Before I could ask more, the heavy oak door creaked open further.
A tall figure stepped into the room.
It wasn't Mrs. Patel. It was Roman.
He looked immaculate in a three-piece charcoal suit, his silver-gray tie knotted with military precision. But his face was carved from granite. His eyes locked onto mine instantly, softening by a fraction before hardening back into an impenetrable shield.
"Leave us, Mrs. Patel," Roman commanded quietly.
The housekeeper bowed her head quickly and hurried out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.
Roman walked over to the bed, resting one hand on the wooden footboard. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," I lied, clutching the sleeves of his oversized sweater over my hands. "Mr. DeLuca... whatever you're doing downstairs, you need to stop it. If you publicly humiliate Ms. Mercer over this, the press—"
"To hell with the press," Roman snapped, his voice ringing with suppressed fury. "Let the tabloids write whatever they want. They can call me a tyrant, a monster, a maniac. I don't care."
He took two steps closer, closing the distance between us.
"Do you know what Vivian said when I played the security footage for her in front of my senior advisors twenty minutes ago?" Roman asked, his voice dropping into a harsh, metallic whisper. "She laughed. She looked at a video of her sending a woman out into a freezing death trap for a bottle of wine, and she smiled. She told me I was making too much of a fuss over a 'hired servant.'"
My stomach plummeted. A cold sickness washed over me.
"She doesn't care about human life, Claire," Roman continued, his gaze burning into mine. "And she certainly doesn't know who she was playing with. But that’s not the only thing I discovered this morning."
I stiffened. "What do you mean?"
Roman reached into his inner suit jacket and pulled out a folded sheaf of printed financial records, slamming them gently onto the bedside table.
"When my security team investigated Vivian’s digital communications this morning to see if she had accomplices," Roman said slowly, watching my reaction like a hawk, "they found a series of encrypted wire transfers originating from her personal offshore account. Do you know who the recipient was, Claire?"
My breath stopped entirely. The room seemed to tilt on its axis.
May you like
"No," I whispered, though my voice was a dead giveaway.
"Oh, but you do," Roman murmured, leaning over me so close I could feel his breath. "One hundred eighty-four thousand dollars. Paid in monthly installments to a shell corporation tied to a local syndicate loan shark. And attached to those transfer records was a memo line... and a very specific name. Lily Bennett."
