Chapter 3 - The Pulse of the Beast
By the time Roman found Claire Bennett in the snow, her eyelashes were frozen together and his Christmas dinner was still being served.
That was the part he would remember for the rest of his life.
Not the screaming wind. Not the bloodless color of her lips. Not even the terrifying moment when he pressed two fingers beneath her jaw and felt a pulse so faint he thought he had imagined it.
What Roman would remember was the golden light spilling from the mansion behind him. Warm windows, crystal chandeliers, a twenty-foot Christmas tree glowing through the glass, and forty people inside drinking champagne while a woman who worked under his roof lay unconscious in a snowbank less than two hundred yards away.
Someone in that house had sent her there. And someone had locked that door from the outside.
Roman tore off his heavy cashmere overcoat, wrapped it tightly around Claire's freezing body, and lifted her effortlessly into his arms.
"Stay with me," he commanded, his voice thick with an emotion he hadn't felt since he buried his father.
She did not move.
"Claire."
Nothing.
He turned and carried her back toward the mansion at a dead run, his boots breaking the crust of the snow. When he burst through the service doors, the contrast of warmth and noise hit him like a physical wall.
"Stop the music!" Roman’s roar echoed through the vaulted halls with such raw, explosive authority that the string quartet stopped playing mid-note.
The laughter died instantly. Forty pairs of eyes turned toward the service corridor as Roman carried Claire’s limp, frozen form straight into the center of the grand ballroom, laying her gently down on the plush Persian rug near the fireplace.
"Get a medic! Now!" Roman shouted, dropping to his knees beside her.
Mrs. Patel rushed forward, dropping to her knees with a gasping cry, pressing a blanket over Claire's shaking shoulders while pressing her ear to Claire's chest. "She's hypothermic, Mr. DeLuca! Her core temperature is dangerously low. We need an ambulance immediately, but the county roads are blocked by fallen trees."
"Then call the private chopper," Roman snapped, ripping off his own wet cuffs. He looked up, his gray eyes sweeping over the stunned crowd of guests until they landed squarely on Vivian Mercer, who stood near the edge of the fireplace, clutching her champagne glass so tightly her knuckles were white.
"Who sent her outside?" Roman’s voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the terrifying weight of an executioner.
The ballroom was dead silent. You could hear the crackle of the fireplace and the howling wind against the reinforced windows.
Vivian swallowed hard, stepping forward with a brittle, defensive smile. "Roman, darling, what is happening? Why are you making a scene over a clumsy maid who couldn't handle a simple errand?"
Roman stood up slowly. He was six feet two inches of cold, coiled rage. He walked across the room toward her, every step deliberate and heavy, until he stood towering over her.
"I asked a question, Vivian," he said softly. "Who sent her outside into a category-two blizzard?"
"She volunteered!" Vivian protested, her voice rising defensively as the surrounding guests shifted uncomfortably. "I simply asked for a bottle of wine from the cellar. It's not my fault she decided to dawdle in the storm!"
"The carriage house door was bolted from the outside," Roman said, his gaze boring into her soul. "The security detail confirmed the exterior latch was dropped manually at 9:05 PM. She didn't just get caught in the storm, Vivian. Someone locked her in the dark to freeze."
Vivian’s face lost every trace of color. "That’s... that’s absurd! You’re accusing me over a servant?"
Roman didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. "Marcus!"
His head of security stepped forward from the shadows of the arched doorway. "Boss."
"Lock down the estate. No one leaves. Pull the security logs from the south lawn cameras, the service intercoms, and every phone record in this building for the last forty-eight hours. I want to know every conversation that girl had with anyone in this house."
"Right away, Mr. DeLuca," Marcus said, turning sharply on his heel.
Roman turned back to Claire, where Mrs. Patel and a staff doctor were frantically administering CPR and warming blankets. He knelt beside her again, gently brushing a lock of ice-encrusted hair from her forehead.
As he did, his fingers brushed against the pocket of her wet uniform jacket. Something small and metallic fell out onto the rug.
It was a small, crumpled notepad.
May you like
Roman picked it up. Written in neat, hurried handwriting were several figures, phone numbers, and a name that made his blood run cold: Harbor Ridge Rehabilitation Center — Lily Bennett.
And beneath it, scrawled in angry red ink: Balance: $184,000.
