Chapter 5 - Shadows in the East Wing
Gabriel Ferraro escorted Maeve down a sprawling, wood-paneled corridor in the east wing of the estate, his footsteps echoing softly against the plush oriental runner. He stopped in front of a heavy mahogany door with brass fittings and pushed it open, revealing a bedroom that looked like it belonged to a European boutique hotel.
"This was prepared for Miss Ashford when she moved in last year," Gabriel said, his tone neutral, though his eyes remained watchful. "There are clothes in the walk-in closet, toiletries in the bathroom, and a panic room button behind the headboard if you hear anything unusual tonight."
Maeve stepped inside, clutching her handbag tightly. "Unusual?"
"Mr. Marchetti has enemies, Miss 'Ashford,'" Gabriel said, pausing in the doorway. "Since the accident on Lower Wacker Drive, the vultures have been circling. They think the king is crippled, which means they think the crown is up for grabs. Stay in your room after dark. Don't wander the halls."
Before Maeve could ask what he meant, Gabriel pulled the door shut, leaving her alone in the quiet luxury of the room.
Maeve walked over to the king-sized bed, sank onto the edge, and let out a long, ragged breath, burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook as the adrenaline finally began to drain out of her system, leaving behind a profound, terrifying exhaustion. She was trapped. She was playing a high-stakes game of deception against a master criminal who analyzed human behavior for a living, and all for the sake of her brother's medical bills and an ungrateful debutante’s social standing.
Knock, knock.
Maeve jumped, lifting her head.
The door opened slightly, and a middle-aged woman in a neat black maid’s uniform stepped inside, carrying a silver tray with a steaming cup of chamomile tea and a plate of shortbread cookies. Her hair was pulled back into a tidy bun, and her kind, lined face held a sympathetic smile.
"Good evening, miss. I’m Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper," the woman said softly, setting the tray down on the bedside table. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Mr. Marchetti can have that effect on people, even on a good day."
Maeve looked up, feeling an immediate, desperate kinship with the older woman. For the first time in days, she was looking at someone who wore an apron instead of designer silk.
"Is he always like that?" Maeve asked quietly. "So... sharp? So cold?"
Mrs. Gable sighed, folding her hands in front of her apron. "He wasn't always. Before the accident—before his father died and he had to take over the syndicate—Elias was a different man. He laughed more. But power makes people paranoid. And now, with his legs... he thinks everyone is waiting for him to fall so they can push him off the mountain."
"Does he really never walk?" Maeve blurted out, before catching herself. "I mean... the doctors said..."
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"Dr. Keller says it's permanent," Mrs. Gable replied, lowering her voice slightly. "But Mr. Marchetti doesn't let anyone help him. He drags himself across the study floor when nobody’s looking, just to prove he doesn't need a wheelchair. Pride is his greatest strength, and it’s going to be his destruction."
Maeve sipped the tea, warmth spreading through her chest. She looked at Mrs. Gable and realized something vital: in this house of wolves, the servants were the only ones who saw the truth. And if she wanted to survive the next three months without Elias uncovering her lie, she was going to need an ally.
