Chapter 11
The grand hallway leading back toward the central catering kitchen of the Caldwell estate was now eerily quiet. The sweeping orchestral music that had filled the ballroom had abruptly ceased, replaced by the frantic murmurs of departing guests and the heavy, rhythmic thuds of the private security team locking down the perimeter. Grace Holloway walked with a steady, measured pace. Her muscles were still coiled tight with adrenaline from the explosive taekwondo kick she had delivered only moments ago. Her eyes continuously scanned the oil paintings lining the walls, but her mind was fiercely locked onto the image of the man in the black suit she had spotted near the secondary bar.
His gaze hadn't held the panic of an innocent bystander witnessing sudden violence; it was freezing, hollow, and sharply calculating. The way he had immediately withdrawn a black phone to make a call the second their eyes met proved he was no ordinary henchman belonging to Sabrina or Vance. Those two were merely greedy, arrogant puppets, entirely incapable of maintaining such a professional, deeply embedded surveillance network.
"Grace!"
An urgent shout from behind made Grace stop. Thomas, the head butler with graying hair and a deeply lined face, was taking long, frantic strides toward her. He was breathless, his usually immaculate black suit looking unusually disheveled.
"Mr. Caldwell wishes to see you in the private library. Immediately," Thomas said, his gaze no longer reflecting the dismissal of a manager addressing a maid hired three weeks ago. Instead, his eyes held a complex mixture of profound shock, apprehension, and genuine respect.
"How is Lily doing, Thomas?" Grace asked, her voice maintaining its natural, soothing warmth.
"She has fallen asleep in the master’s arms. The private family physician is en route to conduct a full toxicology screen and draw blood," Thomas answered, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Mr. Caldwell is experiencing a level of fury I have never witnessed. Vance and Sabrina have been handed over to the authorities, but he demands further testimony from you. Follow me."
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Grace nodded, shadowing Thomas down the East Wing corridor, which led to Ethan Caldwell’s private sanctuary. Unlike the blinding, cinematic opulence of the ballroom, the library carried a solemn, intimidating majesty, featuring towering oak bookshelves and the rich, heavy scent of aged parchment and Cuban cigars. Ethan stood with his back to the door, both hands planted firmly on a massive mahogany desk. He had discarded his navy suit jacket and rolled his crisp white sleeves up to his elbows. As the heavy door clicked shut, he turned. His handsome, rugged face was etched with exhaustion, but his dark eyes burned like a newly awakened lion's.
"Thomas, you are dismissed. Ensure no one approaches this corridor," Ethan commanded. Once the room was sealed, he took a step forward, staring intensely at the woman standing perfectly straight before him. "You are not a normal maid, Grace Holloway."
