Chapter 7 - The Greenhouse Secret
The rusted hinges gave way with a sharp snap as Julian threw his weight against the crowbar one last time, popping the heavy iron door wide enough for him to squeeze through. He didn't waste a second catching his breath; he scrambled up the damp wooden stairs of the subterranean vault, shoved the heavy trapdoor open, and hauled himself out onto the Persian rug of the master study.
The study was empty. The mahogany desk remained strewn with the stolen photographs, but the heavy oak door leading out to the hallway stood wide open.
Julian burst out into the hallway, his black velvet jacket slightly scuffed and dusted with basement grit. The warm wall sconces flickered rhythmically, casting long, dancing shadows across the wooden walls. He looked toward the spot where the young maid had been kneeling earlier, but she was gone. The only remnant of her presence was the delicate silver necklace she had dropped, lying forgotten on the hardwood floor.
He picked it up, slipping it into his pocket before sprinting toward the grand staircase at the far end of the hallway. His mind was entirely fixed on Sector B—the greenhouse.
The mansion was eerily quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock near the foyer. As Julian reached the back corridor leading to the glass-walled conservatory, the air grew noticeably cooler and damper, carrying the rich scent of damp earth, blooming orchids, and crushed leaves.
Pushing open the heavy glass doors of the greenhouse, Julian stepped into a lush jungle of exotic ferns and towering palms. The amber glow of the outdoor security lights filtered through the frosted glass panes overhead, casting a ghostly illumination across the winding stone pathways.
Near the center fountain, bathed in pale moonlight, the young maid stood motionless. Her black and white maid uniform was slightly torn at the shoulder, and her white headband lay discarded on the wet gravel. Standing directly behind her, holding a pair of heavy garden shears with long, steel blades, was Victoria.
Victoria’s beige satin silk robe fluttered gently in the draft coming from an open roof vent. She didn't look angry anymore; her face was an unsettling mask of cold, calculated serenity as she rested the razor-sharp edge of the shears against the delicate skin of the girl's neck.
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“Don’t take another step, Julian,” Victoria whispered, her voice carrying clearly through the dense foliage. “You’re just in time to watch the final branch get pruned.”
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