Chapter 3 - Footsteps in the Gallery
At seven in the morning, the heavy mahogany double doors of the master bedroom swung open without a prior knock.
I was already on my feet, smoothing down my worn navy scrubs, holding a lukewarm bottle of formula for Leo, who sat strapped into his bouncy seat on the floor. I made sure my hair was disheveled and that my eyes carried the dark, bruised circles of exhaustion.
Julian Sterling stepped into the room. He wore a bespoke charcoal Brioni suit, his platinum silk tie pinned with an antique pearl. His hair was slicked back with expensive pomade, and he carried a silver espresso cup that he balanced casually on the edge of a mahogany side table without using a coaster.
Behind him loomed Marcus, the head of the estate’s private security detail—a six-foot-four slab of muscle with a coiled earpiece trailing down his thick neck.
Julian didn't look at his uncle. He looked at me, his lip curling in unconcealed disgust as he took in the diaper bag slung over the chair and the scent of warm baby milk in the air.
"He made it through the night, then," Julian said, his voice smooth, indifferent, and entirely devoid of human feeling. "Pity. The florist needed forty-eight hours' notice for the white calla lilies."
"His oxygen saturation dropped to eighty-eight around dawn, Mr. Sterling," I said, keeping my head down, my voice meek, shaky, and submissive. "I had to increase the concentrator to four liters."
Julian strolled to the edge of the bed. He reached out with the tip of his polished leather shoe and tapped the wooden frame of Grant’s bed, like a landlord checking a structural beam in a condemned apartment.
"Look at him," Julian sneered. "Thirty years spent building Sterling Logistics. Never took a vacation. Never married after Evelyn died. And for what? To spend his last forty-eight hours shitting in a bag while a welfare case wipes his chin."
My fingernails bit into the palms of my hands so hard they drew blood, but I kept my eyes fixed on the Persian rug.
"He doesn't respond to auditory stimuli anymore," I murmured softly. "His pupillary reflexes are sluggish."
Julian reached down, grabbed a handful of Grant’s silver-threaded hair, and yanked his head back roughly.
My heart vaulted into my throat. *Don't flinch, Grant. For God's sake, don't flinch.*
Grant’s face remained an utterly slack, lifeless mask of clay. His eyelids hung half-open, glazed and completely vacant. His jaw hung loose. He allowed Julian to pull his head back like a ragdoll. Not a single muscle fiber fired. It was an astonishing display of willpower—an iron mind holding total dominion over an awakened body.
Julian dropped Grant’s head back onto the pillow with a wet thud. He wiped his fingers on a linen handkerchief from his breast pocket.
"Disgusting," Julian muttered. "Marcus, make sure Barragan runs the midday infusion at twelve instead of four. I want the board’s independent physician to arrive tomorrow morning at ten for the final certification. The sooner we get the death certificate signed, the sooner we can clear this room out. It smells like a hospice."
"Understood, Mr. Julian," Marcus replied in a low rumble.
Julian turned his cold blue eyes onto me. He took two steps forward until he was standing inside my personal space. The scent of his cloying sandalwood cologne made me nauseous.
"You," Julian said, tapping my chest with the silver rim of his empty espresso cup. "You pack your bags tonight. When the certification doctor arrives tomorrow, you and your little stray are out on the street. I won't have you lingering around trying to claim severance or worker's comp from the estate."
"Yes, Mr. Sterling," I whispered, trembling visibly. "Of course. Thank you for the opportunity."
Julian smirked, satisfied with my cowardice, and spun on his heel. "Let’s go, Marcus. I have a nine o'clock call with the Singapore terminal directors. Tell them the acquisition is moving forward by the end of the week."
The heavy doors clicked shut. Their footsteps receded down the wide parquet gallery toward the western wing.
The second the sound vanished, Grant’s eyes snapped open. His chest heaved as he let out a jagged, silent breath of pure rage.
"Singapore," Grant whispered through gritted teeth. "He’s selling my Asian shipping routes to the Chen cartel. That was the price for their backing."
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"He moved Barragan’s injection up to twelve noon," I said, rushing to the door and throwing the brass deadbolt—a lock that Julian assumed was broken. "Grant, we don't have until Friday. We have five hours."
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