Chapter 2: Beneath the Eaves
The autumn air outside the estate bit sharply against Julian’s skin as he pushed through the heavy iron gates. He had left his car behind, unable to bear the slow mechanical hum of an engine when his own pulse raced like a trapped animal. Maren walked a few paces ahead, guiding him through the labyrinth of narrow cobblestone alleys that wound away from the wealthy district toward the city’s quiet working-class fringe.
The grandeur of crystal chandeliers and gold-framed mirrors faded into the dim, amber glow of streetlamps casting long shadows against weathered brick walls. Julian adjusted his dark tuxedo jacket, feeling entirely out of place yet completely indifferent to the absurdity of his attire. His mind was consumed by a single, pulsing question: How could three years of a child’s life pass him by while he attended charity galas and boardroom meetings?
"Is she far?" Julian asked, his voice cutting through the damp night air.
Maren slowed her pace, turning her tear-streaked face toward him. The streetlamp caught the pale luminescence of her skin and the quiet dignity in her posture. "Just past the bakery, Mr. Vance. On the third floor of the brick tenement. We don’t have much, but it was safe. Or so I thought, until Clara’s men started asking questions around the neighborhood last month."
Julian’s fists clenched inside his pockets. "Clara knew where you lived?"
"She’s known since the day I took the job at the estate," Maren admitted, her voice trembling slightly as she pulled her wool shawl tighter around her shoulders. "She didn't fire me because she wanted to keep an eye on us. She thought if we stayed close, we’d stay quiet. But children grow, Mr. Vance. And children start asking questions that can't be answered with silence."
They turned into a narrow entryway flanked by peeling green paint and a rusted stairwell. Every step Julian took upward felt like a descent into a reality he was entirely unequipped to handle. The building smelled of old wood, boiling tea, and damp rain—a world away from the fragrant rose gardens and polished marble of his daily existence.
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When Maren pushed open a creaky wooden door on the landing, Julian stopped in his tracks. The room was modest, illuminated only by the soft, warm glow of a small desk lamp. In the corner, beneath a patchwork quilt, a small form stirred.
Julian’s breath caught in his throat. He felt an invisible hand grip his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs as he stepped across the threshold, walking softly toward the bed where his daughter lay sleeping.
