Chapter 3: The Secret Room
Escaping the suffocating tension of the dining hall, Clara retreated down the dim hallway toward the service quarters, but her feet carried her instead toward the restricted west wing. Rumor had it that Arthur kept his personal archives there—records predating Nora’s corporate takeover of the family fortune.
The air grew cooler here, smelling of old leather, dust, and fading memories. Moonlight poured through tall arched windows, casting silver bars across the Persian carpets. Clara pulled a small master key from her pocket, her heart hammering against her ribs. She knew the risks; if security caught her, she’d be fired instantly. But the look in John's eyes back in the dining hall haunted her. There was pain there, not just malice.
As she turned the brass doorknob of the study, it clicked open with an eerie smoothness. The room was untouched, preserved in amber. On the mahogany desk sat a leather-bound journal bearing Arthur’s old handwriting.
Before she could open it, a heavy shadow filled the doorway. Clara gasped, spinning around to find John standing there, his black overcoat brushing the doorframe.
"You shouldn't be in here, kid," John said quietly, though his tone lacked its previous bite.
May you like
"Neither should you," Clara shot back, lifting her chin. "Unless you want answers as badly as I want to know why my boss is being treated like a prisoner in his own home."
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