THE BROKEN COMPASS: SHADOWS OF THE MONTGOMERY HEIRS

I wasn’t a navy SEAL, but six years of working high-end carpentry on luxury estates meant I knew how rich men secured their homes. They relied on routines, automation, and underpaid staff.

Using a set of stolen blueprints for the estate's HVAC and renovation project—which I managed to download off a public city permit database—I found a blind spot near the west wing conservatory. The Montgomery family was installing an imported Italian marble greenhouse, and the contractors had left a temporary service access door unlocked for the morning crew.

Clad in dark work clothes, carrying a tool belt to blend in, I scaled the outer perimeter wall where an overhanging oak tree provided cover. I hit the muddy grass on the other side, my heart hammering in my ears.

Swoosh.

A patrol vehicle swept past the main driveway, its searchlights slicing through the downpour. I pressed myself flat against the stone wall, holding my breath until the red taillights faded.

I slipped through the conservatory service entrance. The air inside shifted instantly—from cold rain to the suffocating scent of blooming orchids and damp earth.

I navigated the labyrinthine hallways of the west wing, dodging night staff and automated security sweeps. Every shadow felt like an ambush. Every creak of the polished hardwood beneath my boots sounded like a gunshot.

Finally, I reached the second-floor gallery. According to Dex's intercepted security logs, the children’s quarters were located in the north tower, while the private residence of Arthur Montgomery was in the east. But the west wing housed the private medical suite.

Why would a residential estate have a private medical suite?

I cracked open a heavy oak door marked PRIVATE - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

The room inside looked less like a bedroom and more like a high-end hospital suite. Monitored screens glowed softly in the dark, emitting rhythmic, mechanical beeps. White curtains fluttered near an open balcony window.

And sitting in a velvet armchair near the bed, staring blankly out at the rain, was a woman.

Her dark hair was pulled back into a loose knot. She wore a silk robe. Though her face was paler and thinner than I remembered, there was no mistaking those sharp, aristocratic features.

"Camila?" I breathed, stepping into the room.

She didn't jump. She slowly turned her head. Her grey eyes met mine, but for a terrifying three seconds, there was no recognition in them. They were glassy, vacant, diluted by heavy medication.

Then, her gaze drifted down to my exposed forearm, where my wet sleeve had pulled back, revealing the broken compass.

A sharp gasp tore from her throat. The haze in her eyes shattered, replaced by raw, unadulterated terror.

"Ethan?" she whispered, her voice raspy and frail. "No... no, you can't be here! If my father finds you..."

"Camila, what happened to you?" I rushed to her side, dropping to one knee. I took her hands—they were freezing. "I saw the girls today in Central Park. They pointed at my tattoo. Camila... are they mine?"

Tears burst from her eyes, rolling down her hollow cheeks. She grabbed my collar with surprising strength, yanking me closer.

"Ethan, listen to me," she hissed, her voice trembling with desperation. "You have to run. You have to take Regina, Lucy, and Valerie and get out of this country!"

"Why? What is your father doing?"

"They aren't just my daughters, Ethan," she choked out, her grip tightening until her knuckles turned white. "My father... he isn't keeping them to inherit the company. He’s keeping them as bargaining chips. He forged my medical records to steal custody! And Ethan... he knows you exist!"

Before I could process her words, a heavy mechanical click echoed from the doorway behind me.