Chapter 3 - the midnight tea
Ethan didn't shout. He didn't hurry.
He looked at Ivy, whose knuckles were white against her apron. "Marcus, move her to the third-floor guest suite."
Ivy shook her head frantically. "No. Staff aren't allowed above the second floor. Mrs. Caldwell will fire me on the spot."
"Mrs. Caldwell doesn't own this estate," Ethan said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You sleep behind a reinforced door with a private guard outside. Marcus, if she needs an ice pack or a doctor, get them here in twenty minutes."
"Right away, sir."
"Wait," Ivy pleaded, taking a half-step toward him. Her fingers hovered near his sleeve, though she stopped herself before touching the fine fabric of his suit. "Mr. Caldwell... you don't understand. If your family finds out what that key belongs to, they won't just fire me. They’ll ruin whatever I have left."
Ethan looked down at her hand, hovering in the space between them. For a fraction of a second, his hard expression softened before turning back to stone.
"Then they’ll have to go through me," Ethan said quietly.
He turned on his heel and walked toward the grand marble staircase that connected the central mansion to the east wing.
The east wing of the Caldwell estate was designed in French neoclassical opulence—gilded moldings, crystal chandeliers dimmed to a soft amber glow, and thick Persian carpets that muffled every sound.
Ethan didn't knock. He pushed open the double oak doors to the private sitting room.
Eleanor Caldwell sat on an antique velvet settee, an embroidered silk robe wrapped around her slender frame. She was sixty-one, impeccably preserved, with silver-streaked blonde hair styled into an elegant twist, holding a porcelain teacup in her lap. Beside her on the low mahogany table sat a steaming silver pot.
She didn't jump when the heavy doors swung open. She simply lifted the cup to her lips, took a delicate sip, and set it down on the saucer with a soft chink.
"It is nearly four in the morning, Ethan," she said, her voice dripping with refined Southern coolness. "Civilized men sleep at this hour."
"Civilized women don't hire estate thugs to choke their maids," Ethan said, stopping in the center of the room.
Eleanor didn't flinch. Her blue eyes, sharp and assessing, met his without a flicker of guilt.
"I have no idea what you’re rambling about," she said smoothly. "If some girl in the domestic pool had an altercation, that is an HR matter for the estate manager. Why on earth are you tracking dirt into my parlor over a servant?"
"The money came in an envelope stamped with your crest," Ethan said. "Fifty thousand dollars in crisp hundreds. And the security override on gate box 412 was run from your private terminal five minutes ago."
Eleanor sighed, setting her teacup aside. She leaned back against the cushions, studying Ethan with a cold, patronizing smile.
"You always were too sentimental about the hired help," she said softly. "Just like your father. He thought every person who swept his floors was a saint."
Ethan walked to the low table. He leaned down, placing both palms on the mahogany surface, bringing his face level with hers. The tattoos on his hands flexed against the dark wood.
"Where is the brass key, Eleanor?"
Eleanor’s smile thinned, but her eyes held steady. "I don't have a key, Ethan. And if I did, it would be Caldwell business. Not yours to interfere with."
"Everything under this roof is my business," Ethan growled. "My father left me the voting majority of Caldwell Enterprises and eighty percent of this land. You live in this wing because I allow it. You draw twenty-four million a year from the family trust because I sign the distribution vouchers."
"And you think that makes you a god?" Eleanor whispered, her aristocratic facade cracking slightly, revealing the venom underneath. "You think you know every secret in these walls? You have no idea who that girl really is, do you?"
Ethan’s jaw tightened. "Her name is Ivy Carter."
Eleanor let out a sharp, mocking laugh that cut through the quiet room.
"Carter," Eleanor mocked. "Is that what she told you? Check her employment file again, Ethan. Look at her background check. Or better yet, ask her what her mother's maiden name was before she crawled in here wearing a gray apron."
Ethan didn't answer. He stood upright, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the velvet settee.
"If Ryan Cole takes another breath near her," Ethan said, "I won't just freeze your trust distributions, Eleanor. I will evict you from this estate before sunrise."
He turned and strode out of the room, letting the heavy doors slam behind him.
Eleanor watched him go. The moment the sound of his footsteps faded down the gallery, she reached beneath the silk cushion of the settee.
Her manicured fingers pulled out a small brass key dangling from an old, frayed leather cord.
She stared at it, her chest rising and falling quickly, before lifting her private cell phone from the table and dialing a number that wasn't in any corporate directory.
"He knows Ryan was involved," Eleanor said into the phone, her voice frantic and hushed. "The girl didn't break, but Ethan has her locked on the third floor. Find Harrison. Tell him we need to liquidate the vault in Geneva before Ethan looks at the Carter files."
She paused, listening to the voice on the other end.
May you like
"I don't care what it costs," Eleanor hissed. "If Ethan finds out what happened to David Carter seven years ago, neither of us will survive the week."
***
