Chapter 8
Downstairs in the servants' quarters adjacent to the kitchen, Clara sat on the edge of a narrow cot, staring at her own hands. Her fingers were still shaking. The adrenaline of the confrontation in the grand hallway had faded, leaving behind a hollow, aching exhaustion that settled deep into her bones.
The door to her small room was slightly ajar, letting in the low hum of the industrial refrigerator down the hall. Clara knew she couldn't stay in this house. The moment Julian and Elena finalized whatever war was brewing upstairs, she would be the first casualty—either discarded as a troublesome witness or crushed beneath the collateral damage of their corporate divorce.
She reached into the pocket of her black maid's uniform and pulled out her personal smartphone. The screen glowed brightly in the dim room. She had three missed calls from her older brother, Marcus, and a text message asking if she needed him to pick her up from the estate gates.
Clara tapped out a quick reply: Get the car. Meet me by the western service road in twenty minutes. Bring your spare keys.
Before she could hit send, a heavy knock echoed against her open door.
Clara froze, her thumb hovering over the screen. She looked up slowly.
Julian Vance stood in the doorway. He had removed his grey trench coat, leaving him in his dark button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing lean, muscular forearms. He looked tired—not defeated, but worn down by the sheer density of the deception surrounding him.
"You're packing," Julian said, his voice flat, noting the small canvas duffel bag resting on the floor near Clara’s feet.
"I'm leaving, Mr. Vance," Clara corrected, standing up to face him. She kept her chin up, though her knees felt like water. "I love the baby, and I’ve tried my best to take care of him, but I am not going to be a pawn in whatever war is happening between you and your wife. I value my life more than this job."
Julian stepped into the cramped room, closing the door softly behind him. "You have every right to walk out that door, Clara. But before you do, I need to know everything you saw in the nursery tonight."
Clara crossed her arms defensively. "I told you what I saw. She came in, she took him out of the crib, and when I tried to stop her from hurting his arm, she threatened me. That’s the entire truth."
"It's not the entire truth, and you know it," Julian said, stepping closer. His tone wasn't threatening; it was intensely analytical, searching for the micro-details that people usually missed. "Elena doesn't lose her temper over a crying infant unless that infant represents something specific to her strategy. Why was she in the nursery at midnight, Clara? She hasn't put him to sleep in months."
Clara hesitated, biting her lower lip. She looked away, staring at the small window overlooking the darkened gardens. "She wasn't trying to put him to sleep, Mr. Vance. She was looking for something in his bassinet storage drawer."
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Julian’s eyes narrowed instantly. "What kind of something?"
"A document," Clara whispered, glancing back at him. "A file with a red wax seal. I saw her slip it into the pocket of her dress just before you walked into the hallway."
