Chapter 27 - The Envelope in the Foyer
My feet froze on the polished marble floor.
"Marcus," I called out, my voice sharp enough to cut through the quiet of the grand foyer.
Marcus rushed back inside from the front steps, his hand instantly dropping to the holster of his sidearm. "Mrs. Sterling? What is it?"
I pointed a trembling finger at the thick, cream-colored envelope resting dead center on the marble table. Tied around it with a neat, unmistakable black silk ribbon was a sprig of dried alpine heather.
"You said the estate was thoroughly swept," I said, my voice dangerously low. "You said nothing on this property could move without your knowledge."
Marcus strode over to the table, his face turning pale as he stared at the envelope. He pulled out a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, carefully picked up the letter, and inspected it from all angles.
"This... this is impossible, Mrs. Sterling," Marcus stammered, looking around the foyer as if expecting an assassin to drop from the chandelier. "My team cleared this exact foyer less than twenty minutes ago before your convoy even entered the gates. There was nothing on this table."
"And yet, here it is," Anton said, walking up behind me and placing a protective hand on my shoulder. He looked at Marcus with cold, razor-sharp eyes. "Someone on your security detail is compromised. Or worse, someone has direct access to this house that you don't know about."
"I'll interrogate every single guard on duty right now, sir," Marcus said, his jaw tight with humiliation and rage.
"Do it quietly," Anton ordered. "I don't want a panic. Find out who was stationed at the north service entrance during the sweep."
Marcus nodded grimly, turned on his heel, and hurried out toward the security quarters.
Left alone in the grand foyer, Anton and I stared down at the cream-colored envelope. The wax seal on the back was stamped with a familiar, intricate family crest—the mark of the matriarch who refused to die, refusal to surrender.
"Open it," Anton whispered.
With shaking fingers, I slipped my nail beneath the wax seal, broke it open, and pulled out a single sheet of heavy cardstock. Written in the same neat, precise block letters were words that chilled my blood:
*“A house built on sand cannot withstand the tide. You thought Como was your sanctuary? It was always your cage.”*
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"She's not just playing psychological games anymore," I said, looking up at Anton, the full terrifying weight of the situation crashing down upon us. "She’s inside the walls, Anton. Not just physically—she has someone inside our inner circle."
***
