Chapter 8: Behind Closed Doors
The heavy oak door of Arthur’s study clicked shut, sealing them inside the quiet sanctuary of leather, tobacco, and old books. The morning sun filtered through the leaded glass windows, casting long, geometric shadows across the Persian carpet. Arthur walked straight to his desk, but instead of sitting behind it, he leaned against the mahogany edge, folding his arms across his chest. Margaret remained standing near the door, her hands clasped tightly in front of her green cardigan, looking every bit like a prisoner awaiting a verdict.
"Sit," Arthur instructed, gesturing toward one of the leather armchairs facing the desk.
Margaret shook her head gently. "I prefer to stand, Arthur."
"Fine," Arthur sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. He let out a slow, heavy breath, trying to organize the chaotic storm of thoughts warring in his head. "If Vance’s organization has been dismantled and you’ve been cleared by federal handlers, why didn't you go to the authorities here? Why sneak into my house through Eleanor? Why make my daughter keep a secret?"
"Because the legal process of un-declaring someone dead isn't a simple phone call, Arthur," Margaret replied, her voice steady despite the tension. "My federal handler, Agent Miller, advised me that public exposure could still trigger retaliatory hits from rogue remnants of Vance’s syndicate. They operated across international borders. Until all of their offshore accounts were frozen and the remaining lieutenants were rounded up in federal custody yesterday morning, I was officially a ghost. Eleanor was the only one I trusted implicitly. She smuggled me into the guest suite through the service entrance two nights ago just so I could see Lily."
Arthur narrowed his eyes, processing the logistical nightmare she had described. "You’ve been in this house for two days, and I didn't even know?"
"We kept to the East Wing quarters," Margaret said softly. "Eleanor brought me food. We didn't want to risk you finding out until the timing was right."
"And when would that have been?" Arthur demanded, his voice rising slightly before he caught himself and reined his emotions back in. "When would you have decided to tell me? A week from now? A month? A year? You made a unilateral decision about my life, about our daughter’s life, all over again."
Margaret stepped closer, her dark eyes flashing with a sudden, fierce determination that reminded Arthur why he had fallen in love with her a decade ago. "What would you have done, Arthur, if I had called you out of the blue last week? Would you have kept your cool? Would you have protected me, or would you have rushed into a confrontation that could have gotten us all killed before the federal sting operation was finalized?"
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Arthur opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. He knew her logic was sound, infuriatingly so. If he had known she was alive, his protective instincts would have overridden his caution. He would have demanded answers, confronted people, and likely blown the federal investigation wide open, endangering everyone he loved.
"Logic doesn't heal a broken heart, Margaret," Arthur whispered, his voice dropping to a gravelly register of deep exhaustion. "You asked me to trust you, but you didn't give me the chance."
