Chapter 1 - The Descent into the White
The iron handle of the carriage house door was cold enough to bite through the fabric of Claire’s thin linen work trousers. Her knuckles were already red from the sudden, merciless plunge in temperature the moment she had stepped past the stone pillars of DeLuca House and into the teeth of the nor'easter. The wind howled across the forty sprawling acres of Long Island salt marshes like a trapped beast, throwing sleet and heavy, blinding snow against her coat.
She did not wear her winter jacket. It was hanging in the damp, crowded lockers of the staff residence—a five-minute walk back toward the service wing that she simply hadn't been allowed to claim before Vivian Mercer had snapped her fingers and pointed her into the dark.
"Find the 1990 Bellamy Reserve," Vivian had demanded, her voice dripping with the casual cruelty of someone who had never once felt the sharp edge of financial panic.
Claire forced her boots forward through the accumulating drifts, her breath pluming instantly into thick white clouds that were immediately torn away by the gale. The carriage house sat isolated at the far edge of the south lawn, a stone relic from the late nineteenth century where old furniture, vintage wines, and forgotten trunks of the DeLuca family history were stored.
Her mind screamed at her to turn back. Her fingers were rapidly losing all sensation, and the wind was so loud it sounded like a freight train barreling down upon the estate. But every time doubt crept in, a colder, more paralyzing fear replaced it.
One hundred eighty-four thousand dollars.
That was the anchor around her neck. Her father’s ghost, weaponized by a woman who wore diamonds like casual armor. If Claire failed to fetch the wine—if she showed even a fraction of insubordination—Vivian’s veiled threats regarding Lily’s rehabilitation center would become immediate, brutal reality. Lily, who needed specialized physical therapy just to maintain upper body mobility after the spinal infection. Lily, who had no one else in the world except an exhausted older sister who spent every waking hour counting pennies and surviving insults.
Claire reached the heavy oak door of the carriage house and shoved it inward with her shoulder.
The interior was pitch black, smelling of old paper, cedar, and centuries of dust. She fumbled along the timber wall until her numb fingers brushed against a brass light switch.
Click.
Nothing happened.
A power surge from the storm must have blown the sub-panel feeding the outbuildings. Cursing under her breath, Claire used the flashlight on her phone, the battery already flickering in the sub-freezing cold, to navigate the towering wooden racks of the wine cellar in the basement level.
The 1990 Bellamy Reserve.
Rows upon rows of dusty bottles stretched into the gloom. Her eyes scanned the hand-written labels, the beam of her dying phone light dancing over vintage years that cost more than her annual rent.
1988... 1989... 1992...
"Where are you?" she muttered, her teeth chattering so violently she could barely articulate the words.
She found the designated bin tucked away in the far, damp corner near the stone foundation. There sat three dust-covered bottles of the 1990 Bellamy Reserve. She picked one up, checking the vintage label with her thumb.
As she gripped the heavy glass neck, a sudden, heavy metallic sound echoed from the top of the basement stairs.
Clank.
Claire froze. The flashlight beam flickered violently, then died completely, plunging her into absolute, suffocating darkness.
"Hello?" she called out, her voice thin and panicked against the stone walls.
No answer. Only the low, howling groan of the wind outside.
She groped her way toward the stairs, clutching the wine bottle to her chest like a shield. When she reached the heavy oak exterior door of the carriage house and pushed against it, nothing happened.
She pushed harder.
The door didn't budge.
May you like
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her veins. Someone had dropped the heavy iron security latch from the outside.
She was locked in.
