Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Estate
Forty-eight hours later, Maeve stood outside the iron gates of the Marchetti estate in Lincoln Park. The sprawling compound was surrounded by towering brick walls, security cameras that whirred quietly in the autumn wind, and a heavy wrought-iron gate guarded by two men in dark suits who looked like they hadn't smiled in a decade.
She wore a tailored wool coat that belonged to Sienna—a coat that smelled faintly of expensive French perfume and cost more than Maeve’s monthly rent. Her hands inside the pockets were damp with sweat. She kept replaying Gabriel Ferraro’s instructions in her head, though Gabriel wasn't the one who had let her in.
One of the gate guards had checked her ID, conferred with someone via an earpiece, and motioned for her to enter.
Walking up the stone-paved driveway, Maeve felt the oppressive weight of the estate. There were no bright flowers or cheerful lawn ornaments. Everything was severe, immaculate, and guarded. When she reached the massive mahogany front doors, a butler opened them before she could even raise her hand to knock.
“Miss Donnelly,” the butler said, his voice flat and devoid of warmth. “Mr. Marchetti is expecting you in the solarium. Right this way.”
She followed him through cavernous hallways lined with dark wood panelling, antique art, and heavy carpets that muffled her footsteps. Every corner seemed to hold an invisible threat. She had spent years working in wealthy homes, but this felt different. This wasn’t just wealth; this was sovereignty. This was a kingdom built on fear and ironclad control.
The butler stopped before a set of double glass doors leading into a sunlit solarium overlooking a manicured garden. He opened one door, gestured for her to enter, and closed it quietly behind her.
At the far end of the glass-walled room sat Elias Marchetti.
He was positioned near the center of the room in a sleek, motorized wheelchair. A gray wool blanket was draped carefully over his legs. Even seated and pale, with dark circles under his striking grey eyes, he projected an undeniable, suffocating presence. He didn't look like a broken man. He looked like a caged predator waiting for the lock to spring.
Maeve froze just inside the doorway. Her throat felt completely dry.
Elias slowly turned his head. His gaze locked onto hers with the precision of a sniper finding his target. He didn't speak immediately. He just watched her, studying every micro-expression, every tremor in her hands, every ounce of terror radiating from her posture.
“You’re not Sienna,” Elias said. His voice was a low, resonant baritone that seemed to vibrate in the glass room.
Maeve swallowed hard, forcing her feet to move forward. She had memorized Margaret’s script, but facing him in person made every rehearsed word feel like tissue paper against a hurricane.
“No,” Maeve managed to say, her voice cracking slightly before she cleared her throat. “I’m... my name is Maeve Donnelly.”
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Elias tilted his head slightly. A small, humorless smile touched the corner of his mouth. He raised his right hand, and Maeve noticed the heavy black onyx ring on his finger. Slowly, deliberately, he turned it around.
“Margaret Ashford’s little housekeeper,” Elias murmured, his eyes narrowing. “And yet, you’re standing in my home wearing Sienna’s coat, holding a velvet box in your trembling hand. Explain to me, Miss Donnelly, why the Ashford family decided to send their domestic help to visit a cripple instead of showing their own faces.”
