Chapter 3 - The Purge of the Seven Maids
The storm outside raged on, hurling sheets of icy rain against the glass, but inside Julian’s private study, the air was dense and suffocating.
Julian sat behind his massive mahogany desk, the laptop screen casting a pale glow across his face. He wasn't looking at corporate portfolios tonight. He was looking at human resources files, personnel records, and exit interviews for the seven maids who had passed through the Cross estate over the past twenty-six months.
Martha Higgins. Resigned after three weeks. Reason: "Hostile household environment, constant surveillance by family members."
Clara Delgado. Terminated by Mrs. Beatrice Vance. Reason: "Incompetence."
Sasha Vance (no relation). Resigned after ten days. Reason: "Unsafe working conditions, constant harassment by sister."
Julian leaned back in his leather chair, rubbing his temples. For two years, he had blindly trusted his mother-in-law and his sister to manage the domestic side of his life while he buried himself in work to cope with Clara’s death. Whenever a maid left, Cynthia and Beatrice always had a neat, tidy excuse ready: “She was stealing,” “ She couldn't handle Noah’s outbursts,” “She was lazy.”
Julian had never questioned them. He had simply signed the severance checks and hired the next agency recommendation.
Until tonight.
Until he saw his son—mute for twenty-six months—lying beside a quiet, unassuming girl on a living room rug, whispering words of safety that Julian himself would have traded his entire fortune to hear.
Why had Noah called her Mommy?
Not out of confusion. Noah was deeply autistic, but he was not unintelligent; his sensory perception was razor-sharp. He knew who Clara was. He had carried her memory like a ghost.
For Noah to call Elena Mommy meant that something in Elena’s presence, her scent, her energy, or her voice mirrored the profound, unconditional safety Clara used to provide. Or perhaps... Elena represented the exact opposite of what the rest of the household offered.
Julian picked up his secure office phone and dialed a direct extension.
“Harrison? It’s Julian.”
A crisp, professional voice answered immediately. “Good evening, Julian. Working late on the shipping acquisition?”
“No. I need a background check run immediately. Top priority, absolute discretion,” Julian instructed, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “I want every public record, employment history, financial trail, and personal connection associated with our current housekeeper—Elena Marlowe.”
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. “Elena Marlowe? Isn't that the agency temp Cynthia and Beatrice hired last month? Why the sudden interest?”
“Just run the check, Harrison,” Julian cut him off sharply. “I want it on my desk by eight o'clock tomorrow morning. And make sure nobody—especially Cynthia—finds out I asked.”
“Consider it done, Julian. You’ll have everything by dawn.”
Julian hung up the phone. He stood up, walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, and stared out into the rain-drenched gardens.
Down in the east wing quarters, a single window glowed with a soft, warm light. Elena’s room.
May you like
What was her story? Why did a girl with hands so gentle she could calm a traumatized child end up scrubbing floors in a fortress of cold stone? And why were Cynthia and Beatrice already looking so nervous every time Elena walked into a room?
Julian’s jaw tightened. The answers were buried somewhere beneath the polished surface of his estate, and by tomorrow morning, he was going to dig them all up.
