Chapter 3 - The Room at the Top of the StairsThe bridal suite was empty when Marcello arrived.
Its double doors stood beneath an antique brass number, 412, at the end of the Rosemont's private fourth-floor corridor. A vase of white lilies rested on a polished table, and a garment rack stood beside the bedroom entrance.
Vivienne followed him reluctantly.
“You see?” she said. “Nothing.”
Marcello examined the room.
The bed had been perfectly made. A champagne bucket stood untouched near the windows. Makeup brushes, perfume, and a jewelry case covered the dressing table.
A blue velvet storage case sat beside the wardrobe.
Marcello noticed it immediately.
“What's that?”
Vivienne's gaze moved toward it.
“Accessories.”
“May I see?”
Her expression became cold.
“Are you asking permission, or have you already decided to search my belongings?”
He stopped.
She was right about one thing. This was her private suite, and the fact that he owned the building did not entitle him to rummage through her possessions.
“No,” he answered. “I'm not going to search your things.”
“Thank you.”
But relief passed over her face so quickly that Marcello almost missed it.
He walked toward the window.
From there, the front courtyard lay far below, its white stone fountains illuminated against the dark.
“My mother used to bring me up here,” he said.
Vivienne seemed startled by the change of subject.
“What?”
“When receptions became too noisy. She'd show me the city and tell me that buildings mattered because of the people inside them.”
Vivienne approached him.
“Your mother was a remarkable woman.”
“Yes.”
He looked toward the blue case again.
“She also used to say that people who feel safe don't need to make everyone else feel foolish.”
Vivienne stepped backward.
“Is that what you think I've done?”
“I think a frightened child said something unusual, and you tried very hard to make her sound ridiculous.”
“Because she is wrong.”
“Then why are you afraid?”
Vivienne's eyes filled with tears.
Marcello had expected anger.
He had not expected grief.
“You have no idea what it's like,” she whispered.
“What what is like?”
“To have your body discussed by strangers. To have everyone looking at you as though you're public property.”
Her words struck him.
He knew she had been exhausted lately. She had refused several public appearances, complaining that pregnancy had made her anxious and uncomfortable.
He had accepted that.
Now he wondered whether his attempt to investigate had crossed a line.
“I'm sorry,” he said.
Vivienne closed her eyes.
For a moment, he almost believed the matter was finished.
Then he noticed a small scrap of pink satin beneath the wardrobe.
It lay half hidden in the shadow, no larger than a postage stamp.
Vivienne followed his eyes.
“That came from my dress,” she said quickly.
He had not asked.
Marcello looked at her.
“Possibly.”
She folded her arms across her stomach.
“You're not going to let this go, are you?”
“I don't know.”
He turned toward the door.
“I'm going to speak with our housekeeping manager tomorrow. Not about your body. About who had access to this floor.”
Vivienne stared.
“Why?”
“Because if Lily saw something, I want to know whether anyone else was present.”
He left without touching the storage case.
Behind him, Vivienne waited until his footsteps faded.
Then she crossed the room and opened her phone.
Her fingers trembled as she typed.
He noticed the case.
A reply appeared almost immediately.
Then you should have removed it before the reception.
Vivienne swallowed.
He won't stop asking questions.
The next message contained only six words.
Make sure the waitress stops talking.
Across the city, Elena unlocked the door of her small apartment above a laundromat.
The hallway smelled of detergent and old carpet.
Lily had fallen asleep in the taxi, her emerald velvet dress wrinkled against Elena's coat.
Elena carried her inside, laid her gently on the bed, and removed her black shoes.
Then she sat at the kitchen table with a glass of water she did not drink.
Her phone displayed a message from the catering agency.
Your Rosemont shifts have been suspended pending review.
She stared at the screen.
There were three Rosemont shifts scheduled for the following week.
Without them, she would struggle to pay rent.
Elena opened her banking app.
Forty-three dollars and seventeen cents.
She closed it again.
On the shelf above the kitchen table stood a cardboard folder marked PERSONAL RECORDS.
For eighteen months, she had refused to open it.
Inside were copies of emails, payroll statements, and invoices from her former position as an accounts-payable assistant at DeLuca Holdings.
Her employment had ended after she questioned a payment that appeared twice in the company's records.
The amount had been $184,600.
Both invoices carried the same description.
Community development consulting.
Both named the same vendor.
Kestrel Renewal LLC.
When she asked why the company had paid twice, her supervisor told her the entries involved a confidential project.
When she asked for authorization, she was told that she had exceeded her responsibilities.
Three weeks later, her contract was not renewed.
She had tried to appeal.
Nobody listened.
Until tonight, she had assumed it was simply the kind of injustice that happened to people without influence.
Now she remembered Patricia's warning.
You already had one disagreement with the Rosemont's financial department.
Elena opened the folder.
She looked at the invoices.
Then she looked at the email from her former supervisor.
It contained a sentence she had never understood.
Mr. Voss has instructed us to close this matter without further discussion.
Graham Voss.
Chief financial officer of DeLuca Holdings.
Elena had seen him at the reception.
He had been standing near the staircase, smiling at the guests.
And when Lily had pointed upstairs, he had been one of the first people to look away.
Elena's phone vibrated.
An unknown number had sent a message.
Your daughter is very imaginative. For her sake, keep it that way.
Elena stared at the words.
Her first instinct was to delete them.
Instead, she took a screenshot, preserving the number and the time.
From the bedroom, Lily murmured in her sleep.
Elena rose and checked the lock on the apartment door.
For the first time since becoming a mother, she wished she had someone she trusted enough to call in the middle of the night.
May you like
Then the phone vibrated again.
We know where you live.
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