Chapter 2 - The Seven O’Clock Call
Upstairs in the bridal suite, the air smelled of imported French lavender and expensive hairspray. Brooke Harrington paced across the plush white carpet, her phone pressed tightly against her ear while she watched her reflection in the gilded antique vanity mirror.
"She refused to sign, Julian," Brooke hissed into the receiver, her voice dropping an octave as she glared at the door to ensure it was securely latched. "The stubborn little cow actually read the indemnity clause. She knows the cottage is tied to the boy's trust."
“Then you push harder,” a smooth, corporate voice crackled through the speaker. “The wedding is Saturday. Once the civil ceremony is registered and the religious blessing is completed, your name goes on the primary deed under marital property statutes. If the sister is still squatting on the east acreage, you’ll have to initiate a formal eviction proceeding, which makes headlines. I told you—clean house before the rings go on.”
"I gave her an ultimatum," Brooke snapped, walking over to the window to look down at the gravel driveway where her own white BMW was parked. "By breakfast tomorrow, she and the brat are out. If Dominic calls while he's flying back, I'll tell him Natalie threw a temper tantrum over seating arrangements. He hates family drama; he'll brush it off."
“Just make sure he doesn't call,” the voice advised before the line clicked dead.
Brooke lowered the phone, her chest heaving with a mixture of adrenaline and triumph. She walked over to the walk-in closet, sliding her hand along the row of designer gowns until she touched the heavy silk of her wedding dress—a custom creation that cost more than a small suburban home.
She had worked too hard, played the demure, devoted fiancée too long, and maneuvered around too many of Dominic’s old-guard loyalists to let a weeping widow and a nine-year-old boy stand between her and the Mercer dynasty.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Emma Collins wiped down the espresso machine with steady hands. Through the small, wall-mounted intercom speaker disguised as a vintage radio receiver, every word of Brooke’s phone conversation played clearly into the pantry.
Dominic stood beside the control panel, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the audio waveform spike and settle on a digital screen.
"She mentioned Julian Parker," Emma noted quietly, stepping into the monitoring alcove. "She thinks Julian is the one advising her brother's firm."
"Julian has been with my family for thirty years," Dominic replied, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "If he’s compromised, it means Brooke didn't just target my estate; she targeted the inner circle. That requires more than ambition, Emma. That requires inside intelligence."
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"Someone in the house gave her the blueprint," Emma said, her eyes narrowing as she thought of the household staff—the drivers, the chefs, the security guards who rotated through the Newport mansion every week.
"Find out who," Dominic instructed, turning away from the monitors and sliding his cuffs back into place. "And Emma? Act natural. If she comes down looking for me—or looking for signs that I’ve returned early—give her nothing."
