Chapter 2 - The Mansion’s New Rules
The morning sun filtered through the massive arched windows of the Moretti estate, casting golden geometric patterns across the pale marble floors of the grand foyer.
Usually, at 7:00 AM sharp, the house was a symphony of quiet efficiency. Staff in crisp uniforms moved through the hallways with hushed whispers, silver trays clinked softly, and the entire sixteen-room Greenwich-style mansion in Chicago's Gold Coast hummed like a well-oiled machine.
Today, however, the machine had completely derailed.
"Lucas, put that down! That vase is worth more than our old apartment building!"
I sprinted across the foyer just in time to intercept twelve-year-old Lucas, who was currently examining a sixteenth-century Ming dynasty porcelain jar with the intense, destructive curiosity of a boy who had spent his life surrounded by plastic toys and cardboard boxes.
Lucas blinked up at me, entirely unbothered. "It looks like a giant egg. Do you think a dragon lives in it?"
"No, but a very angry billionaire will live in your nightmares if you drop it," I whispered, gently steering him away toward the massive sweeping staircase.
Behind us, the double front doors swung open, and Victor Moretti walked in.
He wasn't wearing his usual charcoal-gray Brioni suit. Instead, he wore a dark cashmere sweater and slacks, looking slightly rumpled—a sight so foreign to his staff that head housekeeper Mrs. Gable nearly dropped a silver pitcher of orange juice on the Persian rug.
"Mr. Moretti," Mrs. Gable stammered, her eyes darting nervously toward the six children currently scattered across the grand foyer.
Emma and Ava, the seven-year-old twins, were busy sliding socks across the polished marble floor like it was an ice-skating rink. Daniel stood near the massive stone fireplace, arms crossed, trying to look unimpressed by the towering ceilings and crystal chandeliers. And Noah sat comfortably on Victor's shoulders, giggling as he pulled gently on a lock of the billionaire's dark hair.
"Good morning, Mrs. Gable," Victor said smoothly, effortlessly adjusting his grip on Noah so the toddler didn't tumble off. "I need you to make a few adjustments to the household schedule."
Mrs. Gable’s jaw dropped. "Sir?"
"First, the east wing guest suites on the second floor are to be cleared immediately. Move the king-sized beds out, replace them with twin frames, and get a decorator in here to paint the walls in whatever colors these five monsters—pardon me, children—choose." Victor smiled down at Emma and Ava, who immediately waved at him. "Second, cancel my 9:00 AM board meeting. Reschedule the Berlin acquisition call for this afternoon. My morning is occupied."
"Occupied with... what, sir?" Mrs. Gable asked, her voice cracking slightly as she looked from Victor to me.
"Family breakfast," Victor said simply. "Olivia, tell the chef to prepare pancakes. Real ones. Not whatever gourmet-foam nonsense he usually serves."
I couldn't help the small, disbelieving laugh that bubbled up in my throat. For seven months, I had sneaked around this house like a ghost, terrified of being noticed, terrified that one wrong move would get me fired. Now, less than twenty-four hours after discovering the basement, Victor Moretti was turning his multi-million-dollar estate into a chaotic, makeshift orphanage.
"You're insane, you know that?" I said, walking over as Noah reached out to grab my hair too.
"I'm efficient," Victor corrected, a genuine, relaxed smile touching his lips—a smile I had never once seen him wear at his office desk. "For seven months, you ran yourself ragged trying to keep them safe in a concrete box while working a full-time job. It stops today. You're thirteen, Olivia. Your only job right now is figuring out whether you want to study algebra or marine biology this semester."
My throat tightened. For a long time, I didn't know what to say. I had spent so long being the adult, making the hard choices, swallowing my own fear and exhaustion, that hearing someone else say let me carry that felt entirely foreign.
"What about your board of directors?" I asked quietly, lowering my voice so the kids wouldn't hear. "The media? If the press finds out you've suddenly adopted six kids and your former teenage maid..."
"Let them talk," Victor said, his eyes hardening slightly into that sharp, unyielding corporate steel for a fraction of a second before softening again. "My company, my rules. Anyone who has a problem with my family can try to outbid me in court. They won't win."
Before I could answer, the heavy mahogany doors of Victor’s private study swung open, and his chief legal counsel, Arthur Vance, marched into the foyer holding a thick leather briefcase.
Arthur stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at the twins sliding across the marble, at Lucas examining a priceless oil painting, and finally at Victor Moretti—the most feared corporate shark in Chicago—carrying a three-year-old boy on his shoulders like a common playground jungle gym.
Arthur slowly removed his glasses, polished them on his silk tie, and put them back on.
"Victor," Arthur said, his voice trembling slightly. "What is the meaning of this? The Japanese delegation is waiting on line two, the SEC filing is incomplete, and your security team called me an hour ago rambling incoherently about a basement full of orphans and a secret niece."
"Arthur," Victor said cheerfully, stepping past his lawyer with practiced ease. "Cancel the Japanese delegation's morning slot. Tell them family emergency. And call our real estate division—I want the entire block surrounding the old tenement on 4nd Street purchased by noon. We're building the Elena Russo Community Center."
Arthur stared at his boss, completely paralyzed. Then he looked at me, standing in my gray maid's uniform, holding a half-empty box of cereal I'd confiscated from Noah.
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"And who," Arthur whispered, "is she?"
"Arthur," Victor said, pausing at the entrance to the massive dining hall where the smell of freshly cooked bacon and pancakes was beginning to drift through the air. "Meet my sister."
