Chapter 3 - The Cold War at the Dinner Table
The main dining hall of the Voss estate could have seated thirty people comfortably, making Zaria feel microscopically small as she sat at one end of a mahogany table long enough to bowl on.
She wore the only decent dress she owned—a simple navy blue shift she had bought at a thrift store two years ago. Across from her sat Elias Voss, cutting a rare steak with slow, deliberate precision. The only sounds in the cavernous room were the soft clink of silver against china and the distant howl of the wind outside against the massive glass panes.
Theo was currently upstairs asleep in the nursery under the watchful eye of a certified pediatric nurse named Clara whom Mrs. Gable had hired that afternoon. Knowing her son was safe allowed Zaria to breathe, but sitting across from the most terrifying man in Chicago was a whole different kind of stress test.
"You aren't eating your lamb, Zaria," Elias observed without looking up from his plate. His voice echoed slightly off the vaulted stone ceiling.
Zaria lowered her fork. "I’m just... not very hungry, Mr. Voss. This place is overwhelming. I still don't understand why you brought me here. People like you don't pick up stray waitresses and install them in historic mansions out of the goodness of your heart."
Elias paused. He set his knife and fork down, picked up a crystal goblet of red wine, and took a slow sip. His dark eyes rose to meet hers, gleaming in the flickering candlelight of the grand chandelier overhead.
"You’re right," Elias said smoothly. "I don't do charity. Everything I do has an ROI—a return on investment."
Zaria bristled. "And what is my ROI? What do you want from me?"
"Information," Elias replied.
"Information about what? I worked tables at the Pearl Room for eight months. I don't know anything about your corporate enemies, your board members, or your family trusts."
"Not about my business," Elias said, leaning forward slightly, resting his forearms on the edge of the table. The candlelight caught the sharp planes of his face, making him look carved from stone. "About my past. Specifically, about the woman who abandoned me thirty years ago."
Zaria froze. The air in the room suddenly felt thin. "Your mother?"
"My mother left this house when I was four years old," Elias said, his voice dropping into a register so chillingly flat it carried no emotion at all—which made it terrifying. "She walked out those front doors into a blizzard, leaving me behind with a father who viewed children as business liabilities. For decades, the family narrative has been that she was a gold-digger who traded us for a better life in Europe."
"What does that have to do with me?" Zaria breathed.
"Three days ago," Elias continued, standing up and walking slowly around the edge of the long table toward her, "my private investigators uncovered a new dossier. A woman named Clara Monroe died in a hospice in downtown Chicago. Before she passed, she left a final legal document, naming a beneficiary, and detailing a secret history involving the Voss family."
Zaria’s heart stopped. The world tilted on its axis.
"Monroe," Zaria whispered, her voice trembling violently. "That... that was my grandmother's name."
Elias stopped right behind her chair, leaning down so his mouth was close to her ear. The scent of expensive sandalwood and crisp linen washed over her.
"Indeed," Elias whispered darkly. "Clara Monroe wasn't just a random name in Chicago. She was my mother’s closest confidante, the woman who helped her flee this fortress. And you, Zaria Monroe, carry her bloodline. Which means you didn't just stumble into my club by accident last Thursday, did you?"
Zaria sprang up from her chair, turning to face him, her eyes wide with absolute terror and rage. "You think I planned this? You think I hid my baby in your storage room as part of some elaborate scheme?"
Before Elias could answer, a loud, frantic pounding echoed from the hallway outside the dining hall doors.
May you like
Miller burst into the room, his face completely drained of color, panting heavily as he clutched a encrypted satellite phone in his trembling hand.
"Sir!" Miller shouted, ignoring protocol entirely. "We’ve got a massive breach at the front gates. The media has converged on the estate—and federal agents are right behind them with a warrant for your arrest."
