Chapter 3 - Shadows on the MonitorBack in the subterranean surveillance room, the blue-white glow of the twelve monitors bathed Dominic’s face in a ghostly pallor. His fingers flew across the console, pulling up Camera 4—the east wing corridor.
Grace was walking back down the long, high-ceilinged hallway, her footsteps silent on the thick Persian runner. She didn't look up at the dome camera overhead, though she knew it was there. She walked with a steady, unhurried cadence, entering Julian’s private suite as if she owned the place.
On Monitor 7, Julian was still at his desk.
The lamp cast a warm, golden pool of light across his pale, sharp-featured face. His dark hair was slightly longer than Dominic’s, curling just past his collar—a small act of rebellion against the military-tight buzz cuts Dominic had worn since they were boys.
Julian’s fingers hovered over a fresh sheet of paper.
Dominic zoomed in, the high-definition lens sharpening until he could see the individual fibers of the paper and the faint tremor in Julian’s right hand—the lingering souvenir of the car crash that had shattered his spine and upended their world seven years ago.
Julian picked up his pen and wrote a single sentence.
She told you about the ledger binder, didn't she?
Dominic’s breath hitched. He looked from Monitor 7 to the audio feed, though Julian hadn't spoken out loud.
On Monitor 4, Grace walked into Julian’s study carrying a fresh stack of folded linens. She didn't say a word. She simply walked over to the desk, placed the linens on the side table, and slid a small, folded square of paper right beside Julian’s elbow.
Julian didn't look up immediately. He waited until she walked away toward the kitchenette. Then, with agonizing slowness, he unfolded the paper.
Dominic zoomed the camera in to its absolute limit. The digital pixels blurred slightly, but he could make out Grace’s block lettering:
Next time, use the heavy metal hole-punch. It has better leverage.
Julian’s shoulders shook.
It took Dominic three full seconds to realize his brother was laughing.
It wasn't a bitter, hollow cough or the polite social smile Julian forced for visiting doctors. It was a deep, silent, chest-shaking laugh that caused his head to drop forward against his arms.
May you like
Dominic’s hands tightened on the edge of the console until his knuckles turned bone-white. A strange, suffocating knot twisted in his chest—a toxic mix of protective fury, profound shock, and a bitter pang of exclusion.
He hasn't laughed like that with me since the accident, Dominic thought, a cold sweat breaking out across his back. Never.
