No footwear by the entryway.
Nothing suggested a child resided there except the faint resonance of a piano being played somewhere on the upper floor, one note hit repeatedly until it sounded less like music than a siren.
The guard escorted Grace into a library lined with legal volumes and secured cabinets.
Dominic stood by the hearth, sleeves pushed to his forearms, a glass of scotch sitting untouched beside him.
“You came,” he said.
“You made it hard not to.”
He stepped aside.
The interior of the mansion was chillier than the drizzle outside. Marble floors. Dark timber. Oil canvases. Chandeliers shimmering like ice. It was gorgeous in the way galleries were gorgeous—costly, quiet, and impossible to find comfort in.
No toys in the corridor.
No family snapshots on the side tables.
No footwear by the entryway.
Nothing suggested a child resided there except the faint resonance of a piano being played somewhere on the upper floor, one note hit repeatedly until it sounded less like music than a siren.
The guard escorted Grace into a library lined with legal volumes and secured cabinets.
Dominic stood by the hearth, sleeves pushed to his forearms, a glass of scotch sitting untouched beside him.
“You came,” he said.
“You made it hard not to.”
His focus shifted to her face. “The money is yours whether you accept or refuse.”
“That doesn’t make this less suspicious.”
“No,” Dominic replied. “It makes it honest.”
Grace waited.
He crossed to his desk and lifted a dossier.
“My daughter has driven away sixteen nannies, five tutors, two private therapists, a pediatric behavioral specialist, and a retired nun who claimed she had once calmed a prison riot.”
Grace nearly smirked.
Dominic did not.
“She does not sleep. She smashes mirrors. She conceals food. She bites when cornered. She has confined three caregivers in closets, sheared the hair off one while they slept, and informed a federal prosecutor at a gala that I bury people under highways.”
“Do you?”
His eyes sharpened.
Grace met his gaze.
A long stillness followed.
Finally, Dominic said, “You are either brave or careless.”
“I’m tired. People confuse the two.”
Something resembling amusement ghosted across his mouth and vanished.
“I want to hire you.”
“No.”
“You haven’t heard the terms.”
“I heard enough when you said ‘my daughter’ like she was a damaged import.”
Dominic’s face went rigid.
Grace felt the tension in the room drop in temperature.
But she recalled Sophie standing on that table, knife shaking in both hands, whispering about a man with mint.
So she pressed on.
“She’s not broken. She’s scared. There’s a difference.”
Dominic placed the folder down with immense care.
“You know nothing about my daughter.”
“I know she’s grieving. I know she thinks adults lie. I know she needed one person to get on her level and talk to her like she had a brain instead of treating her like a bomb.”
“She accused me of murdering her mother in public.”
“Did you?”
His bodyguard shifted position near the doorway.
Dominic did not break eye contact with Grace.
“No.”
The reply was hushed.
Not indignant.
Not dramatic.
Just weary.
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