Chapter 3 - The Secret Ledger of Lake ForestMoving to the third floor changed the entire ecosystem of the Calloway mansion.
The third floor was a forbidden zone. While Vivian ruled the main levels with petty tyranny, the top floor of the mansion was Grant’s domain—a sprawling suite of private offices, secure archives, and a heavy oak-paneled library that smelled of old paper, leather, and secrets.
That night, after putting Lily and Noah to sleep in their own rooms with the doors locked from the inside, I sat at a mahogany desk in my new quarters. My shoulder still throbbed, a dull, aching reminder of the afternoon, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the storm brewing downstairs.
Through the intercom system that connected the service panels, I could hear muffled shouting.
Vivian was losing her mind.
"You humiliated me!" her voice echoed faintly through the ventilation shaft. "You moved a low-class foster brat upstairs while your wife is locked out of your bed? What is wrong with you, Grant?"
Grant’s reply was too low to make out, but the sharp crash of breaking glass followed immediately after. A vase. Or a whiskey decanter.
I didn't care about their marriage. My mind was racing over something else.
Earlier, while moving my meager suitcase into the third-floor suite, I had accidentally knocked over a stack of leather-bound ledgers hidden behind a false panel in the study closet. When I picked them up, a stack of loose papers slid out.
They weren't financial statements for Grant’s construction empire.
They were medical records, private investigation reports, and bank statements belonging to Rebecca Calloway—Lily and Noah’s late mother.
And across the top of the main file, written in bold red ink, was a single terrifying phrase: Not an accident.
Before I could process what I was looking at, the heavy oak door of my suite clicked open.
Grant Calloway stood in the doorway. He had loosened his tie, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick, corded forearms laced with old scars. He looked exhausted, the lines around his eyes deeper than they had been downstairs.
He didn't knock. He just walked in, his eyes locking onto the papers spread across my desk.
I stood up instantly, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Mr. Calloway. I’m sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"Sit down, Nora," he interrupted quietly. He walked over to the desk, picked up the medical report, and stared at it for a long, silent moment.
"You're looking at things that could get you killed," he said, his tone flat, offering neither a threat nor a warning—just a statement of cold, hard fact.
"Then why leave them out?" I challenged, fueled by a sudden, reckless surge of adrenaline. "Why keep files about your first wife’s death unlocked in a room you gave to a housekeeper?"
Grant looked up, his gray eyes piercing straight through me. For a second, a flicker of something dangerously close to respect crossed his face.
"Because everyone else in this house is either too greedy, too stupid, or too terrified to look," Grant said softly. He pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down, resting his elbows on the desk. "Vivian thinks she runs this estate. She thinks because she married me after Rebecca died, she inherited immunity. But she’s a amateur playing a game she doesn't understand."
"She beats your children, Mr. Calloway," I said, my voice trembling with suppressed fury. "She starves them, she terrifies them, and she’s trying to erase everything they remember about their mother. If you didn't know, you're a blind fool. If you did know, you're an accomplice."
Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. No one spoke to Grant Calloway like that. In Chicago, men twice his size trembled when he raised an eyebrow.
Instead of exploding, Grant let out a low, humorless chuckle.
"You have a remarkable amount of courage for someone who grew up in the Indiana foster system, Nora Lane," he murmured, leaning forward. "Do you know why I hired you three months ago out of fifty applicants with master's degrees in child care?"
I blinked, caught off guard. "Because I had references from the orphanage?"
"You didn't have references," Grant said quietly. "I had my private security firm run a background check on every single applicant. You were the only one who didn't steal food from the pantry to feed the stray cats in the alley, and the only one who spent her off-hours sitting on the back steps reading fairy tales to an imaginary friend because you were lonely."
May you like
My breath caught in my throat. He had been watching me the entire time.
"I need someone on the inside, Nora," Grant continued, his voice turning ice-cold. "Someone Vivian underestimates. Someone who can protect my children while I hunt down the people who murdered my first wife."
