Chapter 2 - the photo in the drawer
The air inside the dining room turned ice-cold. Julian remained motionless, his hand gripping his crystal water glass so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Head Guard Vance instantly signaled the four guards at the door to step outside and secure the corridor. The heavy mahogany doors clicked shut, locking the room in a heavy, suffocating silence.
"Grace," Julian said, his voice dropping to a low, quiet frequency that sent a shiver straight down Grace's spine. "What did she just say?"
Grace looked as though she might faint. She clutched the back of a dining chair to steady her shaking knees. "Mr. Hale... she's three years old. She doesn't understand what she's saying. She sees pictures in magazines—"
Julian stood up slowly. His tall, muscular frame towered over the dining table, his black suit immaculate under the crystal light. He didn't raise his voice, but the sheer gravity of his presence made the vast room feel microscopic.
"Vance," Julian commanded, looking at his chief bodyguard. "Take us to the staff quarters."
"Mr. Hale, please!" Grace pleaded, tears welling in her eyes as she rushed forward to scoop Amara into her arms. "I haven't done anything wrong! I’ve been a faithful housekeeper here for six months! Please don't search our things!"
Julian walked past her without a word, his polished leather shoes clicking firmly against the marble floor.
Minutes later, they stood inside the modest ground-floor bedroom assigned to Grace and Amara. The room was spotlessly clean, with a small twin bed, a child's crib decorated with teal blankets, and a wooden nightstand.
Julian stood in the center of the room, his dark eyes scanning the modest space. "Where is it, Grace?"
Grace stood by the door, hugging Amara tightly against her chest. Amara looked between her trembling mother and the tall man in the black suit, sensing the shift in the air, her tiny hand reaching up to touch her teal bow.
"In... in the bottom drawer," Grace whispered softly, lower lip quivering. "Underneath the winter sweaters."
Julian stepped over to the nightstand, pulling out the bottom wooden drawer. He pushed aside a stack of neatly folded wool cardigans. Beneath a sheet of lining paper lay a small, tarnished silver picture frame.
Julian lifted the frame into the light.
Inside was a faded photograph of a newborn baby girl wrapped in a white hospital blanket, sleeping soundly. On the baby's left wrist was a pink plastic hospital ID band, and pinned to the blanket was a tiny silver pendant shaped like a crescent moon.
Julian’s breath stopped in his chest. His dark eyes locked onto the crescent moon pendant in the photo—the exact custom heirloom he had commissioned for his newborn daughter, Sophia, three years ago.
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Julian turned around slowly, holding the silver frame in his broad hand. His jaw was set like iron, his dark eyes burning with an intense, terrifying fire.
"Where did you get this photograph, Grace?" Julian demanded, his voice trembling with a storm of emotion. "And why is my daughter's face in your nightstand?"
