Chapter 3 - Ghosts of Greenwich
That evening, the mansion felt colder than ever, yet an unfamiliar current hummed beneath the floorboards. Julian sat at his massive oak desk, the ancient ring resting under the beam of a brass desk lamp. He hadn't sent Camila away. Instead, he had ordered Sanders to provide them with proper meals in the east wing—an unprecedented act of mercy that sent shockwaves through the estate staff.
Julian pulled up the old police files from the accident five years ago on his encrypted laptop. The grainy crime scene photos flashed on the screen: the charred chassis of his personal sedan, the twisted guardrail, the official reports closing the case due to slick road conditions.
Road conditions. That was what the police had said. But looking at the ring, Julian felt a cold spike of doubt. Charlotte never took that ring off. Never. Even when she swam, even when she slept. If she had been driving that night, why was her most prized family heirloom tucked away inside a hidden cavity beneath the floorboards of his study—a room that hadn't been built during their marriage, but was part of the estate's original historic wing?
A soft knock at the door broke his concentration.
Julian opened it to find Camila standing there, holding a mug of chamomile tea. She looked exhausted, her hair coming loose from its messy bun, but her eyes were steady.
"I... I wanted to apologize again, Mr. Hargrove," Camila said softly, keeping her eyes downcast. "And to thank you for not throwing us out into the freezing rain. I know how much that room means to you. Mr. Sanders told me about... your wife and daughter."
Julian stared at the steaming mug, then up at Camila. In her posture, in the dark circles under her eyes, he saw a mirror of his own private hell.
"You lost your husband, too," Julian stated, not as a question, but as a fact he had read in her employee file.
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"Two years ago," Camila whispered, a bitter smile touching her lips. "A heart attack. Left me with a three-year-old and thirty-two dollars in a savings account. Grief has a way of making the world feel very small, doesn't it, Mr. Hargrove?"
Julian’s chest tightened. For the first time in five years, someone had spoken to him not as a billionaire, a tyrant, or a corporate god, but as a fellow human being drowning in loss.
