Chapter 2 - The Mask Slips"Mr. Price?"
A sharp voice cut through the heavy silence of the foyer. It was Mrs. Gable, the veteran head housekeeper who had managed the East 72nd townhouse for over a decade. Her eyes darted anxiously between Celeste, Elena, and the delivery man standing in the doorway. She looked exhausted, her hair pinned back in a tight bun, carrying a stack of embossed invitation lists.
"Are those the linens for the Northstar Foundation dinner?" Mrs. Gable asked, stepping forward to intercept him before Celeste could launch another tirade. "Put them on the side console. And please, use the service elevator. Miss Rowan has guests arriving at noon for the final walkthrough."
Grant lowered the box slowly onto the console table. He kept his head tilted down, letting the brim of the navy cap obscure his eyes. He needed a few more minutes. He needed to see how deep the rot went.
"Sorry about the delay," Grant said, pitching his voice down into a gravelly register that disguised his natural Ohio cadence. "Got turned around on the FDR Drive."
"It doesn't matter," Celeste snapped, not even bothering to look at him as she checked her diamond-encrusted wristwatch. "Just get out through the kitchen. And Gable, make sure Elena signs a liability waiver for that crystal. If it has even a microscopic scratch, dock her paycheck."
Elena’s breath hitched. "Miss Rowan, please. I'll work extra shifts. I'll pay for it. Just don't—"
"Quiet, Elena," Celeste interrupted, her tone clinical and dismissive. "Actions have consequences. If you can't afford to raise your child in a proper environment, perhaps you shouldn't be working in high-end households."
Grant felt a muscle jump in his jaw.
High-end households.
Nineteen months ago, Celeste had sat on the floor of his sister's modest split-level home in Cleveland, eating chicken soup out of a chipped ceramic bowl, laughing as her hair fell into her face. She had told him, “Money is just numbers on a screen, Grant. People are what matter.”
He had believed her. He had handed her the blueprints to his heart, his home, and his legacy.
"Is everything satisfactory, Miss Rowan?" Grant asked, his voice disturbingly calm as he turned to face her directly.
Celeste finally glanced at him, her eyes sweeping over the cheap cotton delivery uniform with undisguised disgust. "Yes. Now leave. The back door is behind the pantry."
"Of course," Grant said softly. "I wouldn't want to contaminate your... environment."
He turned and walked toward the kitchen, but not before catching Mrs. Gable's eye. The older woman gave him a microscopic, sorrowful shake of her head—a silent apology for the cruelty under her roof.
When Grant stepped out into the crisp October air, he didn't get into the white cargo van. He walked around the corner, pulled out his encrypted satellite phone, and dialed a direct line that only three people in the world possessed.
"Boss?" Marcus Bell’s voice answered on the first ring, brisk and alert. "Did the event contractor try to overcharge you again?"
"Marcus," Grant said, his voice entirely devoid of warmth. "Cancel the catering contract for tonight."
There was a pause on the other end. "Grant? What do you mean? The mayor is coming. The board of directors is flying in. We've got four hundred VIPs—"
"Cancel it," Grant repeated, his tone absolute. "And call the legal department. I want every asset, every account, and every property held jointly with Celeste Rowan flagged for immediate forensic audit."
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Marcus went dead silent for three seconds. "Did something happen at the house?"
"She passed the test, Marcus," Grant said quietly, looking back at the tall iron gates of his own townhouse. "She just didn't know she was taking it."
