Chapter 5 - The Portrait's SecretThe next morning, the mansion felt like a gold-plated trap. Every click of my heels on the marble floors sounded like a countdown.
I had to get into Vivian’s private study.
The room was strictly off-limits to everyone except Vivian and her personal secretary. It was locked with a heavy physical key that Vivian carried on her person at all times, a vintage brass piece attached to her silver chatelaine.
I spent the morning in the sunroom, pretending to read a book while secretly watching the household routine. At precisely 2:00 PM, Vivian always took her afternoon tea in the garden, a twenty-minute ritual that she never skipped.
This was my only window.
I slipped out of the sunroom and hurried to the second floor. The corridor was empty, the staff busy with their afternoon duties on the lower levels. I stood outside the heavy oak doors of the study, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I didn't have the key. But I had spent my childhood in Yonkers living in old, run-down apartments with temperamental locks. I pulled a bobby pin from my hair and a small metal tension wrench I had slipped from the nurse’s medical kit earlier.
My hands shook as I inserted the tools into the keyhole. Focus, Claire. Think of Ethan. Think of your father.
Click.
The lock turned. I gasped, a rush of adrenaline flooding my system. I quickly pushed the door open, slipped inside, and closed it quietly behind me.
The study was dark, smelling of old paper, leather, and lemon wax. At the far end of the room, hanging above a massive mahogany desk, was the imposing portrait of Arthur Thornton, Ethan’s grandfather. He had the same cold, dark eyes as Ethan, but his face was set in a harsh, unyielding scowl.
I scrambled over the desk, my slippers leaving soft prints on the leather surface. I reached up, my fingers finding the edge of the heavy gilded frame.
I pulled. The painting swung outward on hidden hinges, revealing a sleek, modern digital safe embedded in the concrete wall behind it.
A safe. My heart sank. Of course it’s a safe. How am I supposed to guess a digital code?
I stared at the glowing keypad. Six digits.
What would Ethan’s father use? A birthday? An anniversary?
I tried Ethan’s birthday first. 0-4-1-2-9-6.
A soft, red beep. ACCESS DENIED.
"Come on, think," I whispered to myself, wiping the sweat from my palms onto my jeans.
I looked around the desk for any clues. There was a small silver calendar, a leather blotter, and a framed photograph of a young Ethan with his father on a sailboat. The name of the boat was painted on the hull: The Zephyr.
Could it be a word converted to numbers? No, that was too complex.
I looked closer at the photograph. In the corner, there was a date written in faded white ink: May 18, 1999. The day they bought the boat.
0-5-1-8-9-9.
I pressed the keys, my breath caught in my throat.
Click.
The safe door popped open.
Inside lay a thick, blue leather folder. I grabbed it, my fingers tracing the silver embossed seal of the Thornton Group. I opened the folder, my eyes scanning the legal jargon.
It was exactly what Ethan had promised. The original, unaltered family trust agreement.
Section 4, Clause B: In the event of the heir’s physical or mental incapacitation, all voting shares and operational control of the Thornton Group shall be frozen and transferred to an independent custodial trust, specifically prohibiting Jason Thornton or any direct descendants of his lineage from accessing the capital.
This document didn't just strip Jason of his power. It proved that Jason’s entire claim to the presidency was a complete fraud, built on a forged copy of the trust that Vivian had let him present to the board.
Suddenly, a cold, hard voice shattered the silence of the room.
"I must admit, Claire... I didn't think you had the spine for corporate espionage."
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I spun around, dropping the blue folder onto the desk.
Jason stood in the doorway, a heavy brass paperweight from the foyer in his hand, his eyes dark with a cold, murderous fury. Behind him, the door to the study was closed, locking us both inside the shadow of the grandfather’s portrait.
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