Chapter 7
The security guard, a weathered veteran named Miller, stepped onto the balcony with heavy, deliberate footsteps. He cast a brief, respectful nod toward Dominic before looking down at Clara, who was struggling to pull her soaked uniform jacket tighter around her shivering frame. Dominic gestured subtly toward Eleanor, his eyes hard and unyielding. "Escort Mrs. Marshall to the east wing drawing room and ensure she stays there," Dominic instructed, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Confiscate her phone, her keys, and any access cards she has on her person." Eleanor stepped back defensively, her blonde hair flying around her face like a golden halo of rage. "You can't lock me in my own house, Dominic! I am a Marshall by blood and by law!" she shrieked, her aristocratic veneer completely shattered. Miller did not flinch, stepping forward with quiet authority to block her path toward the interior doors. "Please, ma'am, let's not make this more difficult than it needs to be," Miller said flatly, extending a large hand toward the hallway. Realizing that resistance was futile and that Dominic’s mind was entirely made up, Eleanor shot her husband a look of pure, unadulterated hatred. "You will regret this, Dominic. Sarah will never forgive you for what you've allowed to happen," she spat out before turning on her heel and marching past the guard into the warmth of the manor, her beige satin robe trailing behind her like the shroud of a fallen queen. The heavy oak doors clicked shut behind her, muffling the sound of her receding protests. Silence descended upon the balcony, broken only by the steady patter of the rain and Clara’s shallow breathing. Dominic turned his attention back to the young maid, who was slowly pushing herself up to a standing position with the help of the brick wall. He reached out a steady hand to steady her, his touch professional yet reassuring. "Can you walk, Clara?" he asked, his tone softening just enough to acknowledge the physical trauma she had endured. Clara nodded slowly, her teeth chattering from the cold as she gripped the lapel of her damp uniform. "Yes, sir. I think so," she whispered, avoiding his direct gaze out of lingering shock. Dominic signaled for Miller to bring a wool blanket from the interior coat rack. Within moments, the guard returned, draping the heavy fabric around Clara’s shaking shoulders. The warmth of the wool seemed to bring a faint bit of color back into her pale cheeks. Dominic watched her closely, knowing that the physical wounds were only the beginning of a much deeper reckoning for everyone inside Marshall Manor.
