Chapter 2 - The Forbidden Room
By midnight, the storm outside had grown vicious, howling against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the library. Ethan had stopped crying hours ago, retreating into a stony, haunted silence that felt even more dangerous than his grief. He sat at his mahogany desk, staring at the open photograph of his wife, Clara, and their six-year-old daughter, Lily.
I stood by the doorway, holding a cup of chamomile tea I had brewed, unsure if I should leave or stay.
"You passed," Ethan suddenly said, his voice deep and rasped from hours of weeping. He didn't look up.
"Pardon?"
"The test. The wallet on the table. The wedding band on the floor. The open door to my study." He looked up, his dark eyes fixing on mine with a chilling intensity. "Eleven housekeepers before you took the bait within forty-eight hours. Some stole cash. Some snooped through my financial files. One even tried to sell a photograph of my private study to a tabloid. I fired them all, paid them off, and threw them out."
"I'm not a thief, Mr. Carter," I said, setting the tea down on the edge of his desk. "And I don't care about your money. I care about rent, and my grandmother's oxygen tank."
He finally stood up, walking slowly around the desk until he was standing just a foot away from me. Up close, his presence was overwhelming—a mix of expensive sandalwood cologne and raw, untamed energy.
"You care about the truth," he corrected softly. "And because of that... you have earned something no one else in this house has ever been granted."
He turned toward the grand staircase at the end of the dark, sprawling hallway.
"Follow me."
My breath hitched. We walked past the silent portraits of past generations of Carters, past the guest suites where eleven women had packed their bags in disgrace, all the way to the very end of the second-floor corridor.
The door with the heavy brass lock. The forbidden room.
Ethan pulled a heavy iron key from his pocket—a key he hadn't used in three years. The lock clicked with a loud, ominous echo in the quiet hallway. He pushed the door open, and the scent of lavender, old paper, and fresh paint spilled out into the corridor.
I stepped inside, and my breath caught in my throat.
It wasn't a shrine of grief. It was a time capsule.
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Every single toy, dress, drawing, and book belonging to little Lily had been preserved exactly as she had left it on the morning of her final birthday. A half-finished puzzle sat on a child-sized table. Pink ballet slippers rested neatly by a white wooden bed.
"No one has cleaned this room in three years," Ethan whispered, his hand trembling as he touched the frame of a painting Lily had made at school. "I couldn't let anyone touch it. I couldn't let anyone dilute her memory. But..." He turned his gaze to me, fierce and determined. "I want you to clean it, Elena. I want you to bring this room back to life. Because for the first time in three years... I feel like my daughter is finally resting in peace, knowing someone stayed with her until the end."
