Chapter 4 - Cracks in the Fortress
By the end of the second week, the rigid atmosphere of the Caruso estate had begun to shift in ways that unnerved my domestic staff and completely fascinated me.
Walter, our seventy-year-old majordomo who had served my family since my grandfather’s era, looked genuinely scandalized when he walked into the breakfast room on a rainy Tuesday morning and found Elise sitting at the main mahogany dining table—not serving meals from a standing position, but actually eating oatmeal alongside me while discussing infant dietary fiber.
“Mr. Caruso, protocol dictates that domestic staff take their meals in the lower pantry,” Walter murmured stiffly, his silver tray trembling slightly.
“Protocol has been updated, Walter,” I replied without looking up from my tablet. “Elise eats where she pleases.”
Elise offered Walter a warm, diplomatic smile. “Thank you, Walter. But I can grab a quick bite in the kitchen if it makes the household run smoother.”
“Nonsense,” I interjected, cutting off any further debate. “Eat your breakfast.”
As the days blended into weeks, the transformation in my daughters was nothing short of miraculous. Maisie was crawling across the Persian rugs with joyful abandon, and Rosie was sleeping a solid eight hours straight through the night. The dark circles under their eyes had vanished, replaced by chubby, rosy cheeks that made my chest ache with a fierce, protective love I had buried the day Clara died.
I found myself rushing home from downtown board meetings, abandoning high-stakes acquisition talks early just so I could catch the tail end of the girls' afternoon playtime in the conservatory.
And every time I walked into that glass-domed room, Elise was there.
Sometimes she was reading aloud from battered children’s books, using ridiculous, booming voice accents that made the twins shriek with delight. Sometimes she was playing clumsy tunes on the grand piano while carrying Rosie on her hip.
She never looked at me with the fearful deference the other staff showed me. She looked at me like a regular human being—a tired, broken father she was quietly helping to put back together.
Then came Friday evening, and with it, an unwelcome reminder of the world outside our fortress.
My sister-in-law, Vivienne, arrived unannounced for dinner.
Vivienne was the embodiment of Chicago’s old-money elite: sharp-tongued, draped in designer furs, and relentlessly obsessed with preserving the Caruso family name according to her rigid, archaic standards. She had spent the last four months treating my grief like a public relations crisis.
We were sitting in the formal drawing room before dinner when the double doors opened and Elise walked in, carrying Maisie on her hip while holding Rosie's small hand.
“Mr. Caruso, the girls’ evening routine is finished, so I’m heading up to—” Elise started, stopping abruptly when she saw Vivienne sitting on the velvet settee.
Vivienne slowly turned her head, her glacial blue eyes sweeping up and down Elise’s simple cardigan and skirt with undisguised contempt.
“Ah,” Vivienne drawled, her voice dripping with aristocratic condescension. “So this is the new help. The one my brother hired to replace poor Clara.”
The air in the room instantly turned to ice.
I stood up from my armchair, my jaw tightening. “Vivienne. That’s enough.”
“Dante, please, I’m just looking out for the girls,” Vivienne scoffed, standing up and smoothing her fur-trimmed coat. She walked right up to Elise, peering at her as if she were inspecting an inferior product at a department store. “Tell me, young woman—what agency did you crawl out of? Because you look entirely unequipped to manage a household of this magnitude. Look at your clothes. You look like a librarian on government assistance.”
Elise didn't shrink back. She shifted Maisie comfortably on her hip, her chin lifting slightly.
“I manage the children’s development, Mrs. Vance,” Elise replied, her voice cool, calm, and effortlessly polite. “And last I checked, my wardrobe isn't responsible for helping your nieces sleep through the night.”
Vivienne gasped, her face flushing a mottled red. “How dare you speak to me in that tone! Dante, fire her this instant! She is completely insolent!”
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I took two long, measured strides across the room, placing myself directly between my sister-in-law and Elise.
“Elise stays,” I said, my voice dropping into that low, lethal register that always made business rivals back away from my desk. “And you, Vivienne, are going to apologize to her right now, or you will never step foot inside this estate again.”
