Chapter 2 - The Request Damian Never Saw
Damian called Clara anyway.
She declined him.
He called again.
Declined.
A third time.
Declined.
Mrs. Alvarez watched him from across the study.
“You fired her at breakfast. Perhaps give the woman ten minutes.”
“Someone photographed her at the hospital.”
That changed everything.
Damian showed her the phone.
Mrs. Alvarez went pale.
“Is that today?”
“Yes.”
Damian called his security chief, Marcus Reed.
“Find out who took this.”
Marcus studied the photograph.
“Angle looks like the parking structure across from the hospital.”
“Get the footage.”
Vincent remained near the windows.
“This is getting ridiculous.”
Damian turned.
“What is?”
“A chef resigns. Somebody sends a photograph. You lock down the estate as if somebody breached national security.”
“She filed medical leave.”
“Apparently.”
“With my forged signature denying it.”
Vincent said nothing.
Damian stepped closer.
“You knew about her surgery.”
“I heard Alvarez mention it.”
“Before today.”
“No.”
Mrs. Alvarez stared at him.
Vincent returned the stare.
Neither blinked.
Damian knew what fear looked like.
Vincent wasn’t afraid.
Not yet.
That bothered him.
At Northwestern Memorial, Clara sat opposite a financial counselor named Diane.
“Your surgeon is concerned,” Diane said.
“I know.”
“You postponed twice.”
“I know.”
“You can’t keep doing this.”
Clara stared at the blue pen in her hand.
“What happens if I can’t make the deposit?”
“We can review additional assistance programs.”
“How long?”
“A few weeks.”
Clara laughed softly.
“Of course.”
“Could your family help?”
“My family is nineteen years old and thinks instant noodles are a food group.”
Diane smiled despite herself.
“Noah?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re still paying his tuition?”
Clara nodded.
Diane leaned forward.
“Clara, I know this isn’t my place.”
“It’s okay.”
“Maybe he misses one semester.”
“No.”
“Your health matters.”
“So does his future.”
“Those things don’t have to compete.”
“They do when there’s one bank account.”
Clara signed another form.
Her phone vibrated.
DAMIAN CROSS.
She declined it.
Again.
Diane raised an eyebrow.
“Persistent?”
“You have no idea.”
Clara left the hospital twenty minutes later.
She didn’t notice the gray sedan across the street.
But Marcus Reed did.
He had arrived before Damian ordered him to.
Because Mrs. Alvarez had called him privately.
Marcus photographed the license plate.
The sedan moved.
Marcus followed.
Back at the mansion, Damian opened Clara’s kitchen notebook.
Most pages contained recipes.
Temperatures.
Supplier numbers.
Reminders.
Then he found a page labeled D.C.
No fifth espresso.
Eat before 10.
Call Dr. Patel if chest pain returns.
No bourbon when taking stomach medication.
Damian stared at the handwriting.
He remembered every argument.
Every eye roll.
Every plate Clara had placed in front of him while telling him that being rich did not make him biologically special.
On the next page was another list.
NOAH.
Tuition: $6,200.
Books: $740.
Lab fee: $480.
Hospital deposit: $3,800.
Damian’s stomach tightened.
Clara had been choosing.
Her brother or herself.
Again and again.
And nobody had told him.
His phone rang.
Marcus.
“The photograph came from a parking structure.”
“Who?”
“Working on it. But I found the car.”
“And?”
“It’s registered to Hale Consulting.”
Damian looked across the study.
Vincent was gone.
“Vincent’s company?”
“Shell company connected to it.”
Damian’s voice lowered.
“Come back.”
“Already moving.”
Damian ended the call.
Mrs. Alvarez entered carrying another folder.
“I found this behind the pantry cabinet.”
Inside were three medical envelopes addressed to Clara.
All opened.
One contained a surgery scheduling notice.
One contained a warning that postponement could increase complications.
The third contained an invoice.
Damian’s anger became cold.
Precise.
Dangerous.
“Who has access to this kitchen?”
“Staff.”
“Which staff?”
“Nearly everyone during the day.”
“And at night?”
“Security. Vincent. Marcus. You.”
Damian looked at the surveillance monitor.
The kitchen camera covered the back entrance.
Not Clara’s desk.
Or so he had always believed.
“Where are archived recordings?”
“Security room.”
Damian walked.
He reached the lower corridor and found Marcus waiting.
“You were right,” Marcus said.
“About?”
“Somebody deleted footage.”
“What dates?”
Marcus handed him a tablet.
Every date matched Clara’s paperwork.
Medical request.
Hospital letter.
Resignation.
Someone had erased eleven-minute windows each time.
Damian studied the access log.
One administrator credential had authorized every deletion.
His credential.
“That’s impossible.”
Marcus nodded.
“I thought so too.”
“Who can clone it?”
“Someone with internal access.”
Footsteps sounded behind them.
Vincent appeared at the corridor entrance.
“You’re turning the house upside down over a cook.”
Damian stared at him.
“Her name is Clara.”
Vincent smiled.
“Of course.”
Marcus’s tablet chimed.
A deleted video segment had been partially recovered.
Three figures appeared on-screen.
Clara entered the kitchen late at night.
She placed an envelope in Damian’s correspondence tray.
She left.
Seven minutes later, another person entered.
The face was hidden by the angle.
But the person wore a distinctive silver watch.
Damian slowly looked at Vincent’s wrist.
Empty.
For the first time in fifteen years, Vincent Hale wasn’t wearing his watch.
Then Marcus enlarged the final frame.
The figure turned just enough for the camera to catch his face.
May you like
Damian leaned closer.
And the recovered footage froze.
