Chapter 1 - The Kitchen InterrogationGrace’s question dropped into the chaotic hum of the Mercer Hill industrial kitchen like a cold stone.
Around them, sous-chefs barked orders, pastry torches hissed, and trays of canapés were hurried past under silver domes.
Marcus, the veteran head catering manager who had worked for the Mercers for ten years, paused with a pastry bag in his hand. He frowned, squinting through steam rising from a commercial dishwasher.
“Tall man? Gray eyes?” Marcus repeated, wiping his brow with a checkered towel. “Every member of my front-of-house staff was hired through Elite Hospitality in Stamford. I personally interviewed every single one of them. Nobody matching that description is on my manifest.”
A cold prickle of intuition crawled up the back of Grace’s neck.
“He was wearing a catering jacket,” Grace insisted, her voice dropping to a sharp urgency. “But he had Italian leather dress shoes. The rubber soles were missing. And he was standing outside Mr. Mercer’s private study—not the service corridors.”
Marcus’s face drained of color. The catering industry was strict; shoes were a uniform requirement for slip-prevention in commercial kitchens, but more importantly, no temporary hire was ever permitted near the executive wing during an active gala.
“Show me,” Marcus said, dropping his piping bag onto a stainless-steel counter.
They rushed back down the corridor toward the grand study, weaving past servers carrying flutes of champagne. But when they reached the mahogany double doors, the hallway was completely empty. The crystal chandeliers overhead cast long, elegant shadows against the pale floral wallpaper.
Nothing moved.
Yet, as Grace approached the study door, she noticed something small and damning: the brass handle was depressed slightly. Someone had just exited, or was waiting inside.
“Mr. Mercer?” Grace called out softly, pushing the door open an inch.
The study was dark, illuminated only by the faint amber glow of city lights filtering through the rain-lashed floor-to-ceiling windows. The leather armchairs were empty. The antique mahogany desk, usually spotless, had a single drawer left slightly ajar.
Grace stepped inside, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She slid her fingers along the edge of the drawer. Inside lay Julian’s personal laptop and a thick leather-bound folder containing the corporate restructuring files for Mercer Harbor Group—documents worth billions of dollars, and keys to every shipping terminal they owned.
The folder was shifted half an inch to the left.
Someone had been photographing the contents.
“Marcus,” Grace whispered back toward the doorway. “Call security. Lock down the perimeter. We have an unauthorized intruder inside the house.”
May you like
Marcus didn’t answer.
Instead, a heavy shadow detached itself from behind the velvet drapes by the window. Before Grace could turn, a gloved hand clamped tightly over her mouth, and a sharp, metallic object pressed cold against the side of her neck.
