Chapter 3 - The InterrogationWhen the heavy oak door of Room 4B opened, Nora was standing beside the window, carefully adjusting the drape to let the morning sun spill across the floor.
Old John was sitting in his wheelchair, freshly showered, wearing a clean charcoal sweater Nora had found in his closet. He was sipping warm chamomile tea from a cup held in his left hand.
Nora turned as the door clicked open.
She froze.
The man who entered was unlike anyone she had ever seen at the estate. He possessed the same fierce, high-cheekboned jawline as Old John, but his eyes were like cracked ice. He was surrounded by an aura of absolute power—the kind of man who didn't need to raise his voice to order a death. Behind him stood two massive men with leather shoulder holsters visible beneath their unbuttoned coats.
Julian stopped three feet inside the room. His eyes swept over the scene in a single, comprehensive scan.
He saw the burning fireplace. He saw the clean, fresh scent of cedar and lemon oil. He saw the hot tea in his father’s hand.
And then he looked at his father’s face.
Giovanni wasn't staring blankly at the wall with hollow, vacant eyes. He was sitting upright, his spine straight, looking directly at his son with an intensity that Julian hadn't seen since the day the old man collapsed on the boardroom floor five years ago.
Julian felt a sudden, sharp tightness in his chest.
"Father?" Julian whispered, his cultured demeanor slipping for a brief, vulnerable second.
Giovanni didn't speak. He slowly lowered his teacup to the tray, his gaze shifting to Nora, who stood rigidly by the window, her hand defensively cupping her pregnant stomach.
Julian followed his father’s gaze. He looked at Nora—really looked at her. He saw the dark circles beneath her eyes, the faded, threadbare sweater she wore under her maid’s apron, her calloused, red-tinged hands, and the unmistakable swell of her belly.
"You," Julian said, his voice dropping an octave. "The temp."
"Nora Bennett, sir," Nora said, forcing her voice to remain steady even though her knees were shaking inside her orthopedic shoes.
Julian took two slow steps toward her. The two bodyguards remained at the door, their hands resting near their hips.
"Mrs. Gable tells me you’ve been stealing from my kitchen," Julian said, his eyes scanning her face for any sign of deceit. "She tells me you’ve been neglecting your duties to hide in this room. She says you manipulated a sick old man."
Nora’s chin went up.
She was terrified. She knew who Julian Moretti was—everyone in upstate New York knew the name. He was a man who owned judges, police chiefs, and shipping lines. But she looked at Old John sitting in his chair, then back at his powerful son, and the fear in her chest melted into a cold, pure indignation.
"With all due respect, Mr. Moretti," Nora said, her voice echoing clearly in the warm room, "Mrs. Gable is a liar."
One of the bodyguards at the door took a sharp step forward at the insult, but Julian held up a single finger, stopping the man instantly.
"Go on," Julian murmured.
"When I was assigned to this room eleven weeks ago," Nora said, pointing toward the corner, "your father was sitting in the dark. The room was freezing. The curtains were locked shut. He was being fed cold porridge at three in the afternoon, served on dirty trays that had been sitting out since breakfast. His sheets hadn't been changed in days. He wasn't confused, Mr. Moretti. He was abandoned."
Julian’s gray eyes flicked toward his father. Giovanni didn't blink. He gave his son a short, subtle nod.
She speaks the truth.
Julian felt a cold, dark fury begin to ignite deep within his blood. He had paid Mrs. Gable eighty thousand dollars a year to manage this estate, with explicit orders that his father receive the absolute highest standard of care. He had hired a team of private nurses who, according to Gable’s weekly reports, were attending to Giovanni around the clock.
"Where are the nurses?" Julian asked, his voice deathly quiet.
"I’ve worked here for eleven weeks, sir," Nora replied flatly. "I have never seen a nurse enter this room once."
Julian closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. When he opened them, the ice in his expression had turned to liquid fire. He walked over to his father’s chair, dropped to one knee—a gesture he hadn't made since he was a boy—and looked into Giovanni’s eyes.
"Is this true, Pop?" Julian asked softly, using the informal title he hadn't uttered in a decade. "Did they leave you in the cold?"
Giovanni reached out his left hand. He didn't touch Julian’s face. Instead, he reached past his son, pointing his finger directly at Nora.
Then, with an agonizing, Herculean effort that brought a bead of sweat to his silver hairline, Giovanni spoke his second sentence in five years.
"She... fed... me."
The three words hung in the air like a sacred vow.
Julian stood up slowly. He turned to face Nora. The cold, suspicious mask was entirely gone, replaced by a profound, unreadable solemnity.
"Miss Bennett," Julian said quietly. "How much does Mrs. Gable pay you?"
"Twelve dollars an hour, sir," Nora answered. "Minus deductions for my room on the third floor."
Julian looked at her small, calloused hands, then at her swollen stomach. "You are six months pregnant, working twelve-hour shifts on stone floors for twelve dollars an hour... and you used your own time to warm my father’s food?"
"I couldn't leave him like that," Nora said simply, wiping a stray strand of brown hair from her forehead. "Nobody deserves to be forgotten."
Julian stared at her for five long seconds. Then he turned to his chief security officer at the door.
"Marco."
"Yes, Boss?"
"Bring Mrs. Gable down to the study. Bring the private nursing staff agency records. And call our financial auditor." Julian’s voice was as smooth as velvet, but it carried the sentence of absolute ruin. "I want to know every cent that woman has spent out of the estate account over the last five years."
"Right away, sir."
"And Marco?" Julian added, glancing back at Nora.
"Sir?"
"Tell the kitchen staff that Miss Bennett is no longer an employee of this house."
Nora’s heart dropped into her stomach. Her breath hitched. "Mr. Moretti, please! I need this job! I have nowhere else to go—"
"You misunderstand me, Miss Bennett," Julian interrupted, his voice surprisingly gentle. He looked at his father, who was watching him with sharp, expectant eyes. "You are no longer a maid. As of this moment, you are the personal director of my father’s care and an honored guest of the Moretti family. You will move into the master guest suite in the west wing immediately."
May you like
Nora blinked, utterly stunned. "What?"
"Your salary is now one hundred thousand dollars a year," Julian continued smoothly, as if discussing the price of a cup of coffee. "And my family’s private legal team will be reviewing your personal financial situation by noon today. Whoever hurt you, Miss Bennett... whoever left you with debts in your name... they are about to discover that bothering you means bothering me."
