Chapter 3: What the East Wing Was Hiding
I told Marco to keep Vivienne in the dining room.
He nodded once.
He didn't ask why.
I took the key from the evidence bag and walked alone down the corridor toward the east wing.
The rain was louder here, drumming against the tall windows that lined the hall.
I hadn't walked this passage in months.
After Sofia collapsed, I had locked the wing out of respect.
Or so I told myself.
The key was small.
Brass.
Old enough to have worn smooth at the teeth.
The lock turned on the first try.
The room beyond was a private study — one I had converted years ago into a secure file room for documents I didn't want near the main office.
Personnel files.
Household contracts.
Financial records going back a decade.
Sofia had been the only staff member I trusted with a key.
I stepped inside and pulled the cord on the overhead light.
The filing cabinet in the corner was open.
Three drawers.
The bottom two were undisturbed.
The top drawer had been rifled — folders pushed back unevenly, one hanging half out of its slot.
I crossed the room and checked the hanging folder first.
It was labeled in Sofia's handwriting: *Household — Payroll — Current.*
Empty.
I checked the folder behind it.
*Household — Contracts — Active.*
Also empty.
My jaw tightened.
I pulled the next folder.
Then the next.
Seven folders in the top drawer.
Four of them stripped clean.
I stood there for a moment, listening to the rain.
Then I heard the door open behind me.
I turned.
It wasn't Marco.
It was Vivienne.
She had slipped past him somehow — or he had let her through, and I would deal with that later.
She stood in the doorway in her sapphire gown, arms crossed, the ring still on her finger.
"You shouldn't be in here," I said.
"Neither should you, technically." She glanced at the open cabinet.
"Find what you were looking for?"
"What did you take from these folders?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Vivienne." I kept my voice flat.
"Four folders are empty.
Sofia's handwriting is on every label.
You had the key.
You were in this room.
What did you take?"
She walked in slowly, heels quiet on the hardwood, and stopped near the desk.
"Sofia kept records," she said.
"Careful, detailed records.
About everything that happened in this house."
"I know that.
She was thorough.
It's why I trusted her."
"She was more than thorough, Damian." Vivienne picked up a paperweight from the desk and turned it in her hand.
"She kept records about you.
About your finances.
About certain transfers you made three years ago that your board of directors would find very interesting."
I didn't move.
"Put that down."
She set it down.
Gently.
Almost kindly.
"I'm not threatening you," she said.
"I'm explaining why I needed those documents before tonight.
Before the engagement became official.
Before lawyers started asking questions."
"You stole from a de@d woman's room to protect yourself."
"I stole from a de@d woman's room to protect us." She looked at me steadily.
"There's a difference."
"There isn't."
Her expression didn't change.
But something behind her eyes shifted — a calculation running, a new approach being selected.
"Those transfers," she said quietly.
"Do you want me to tell you what Sofia wrote about them?
Or would you rather I simply return the documents and we forget this evening happened?"
The rain hit the window in a long, flat sheet.
I looked at her for a long moment.
Then I walked to the door and called down the hall.
"Marco."
He appeared at the end of the corridor in four seconds.
"Call my attorney," I said.
"Tell him to come now.
Tonight."
Vivienne's chin lifted slightly.
"You're making a mistake."
May you like
"I've made two tonight," I said.
"I'm done making them."
