Chapter 4 - The Secrets in the West Wing
Dawn broke over the North Shore estate with a pale, bruised sky, the storm clouds clearing away to leave behind a crisp, frosty Friday morning.
By 7:30 a.m., Julian was seated at the head of the formal breakfast table. The silver coffee urn steamed quietly, but neither the coffee nor the freshly baked pastries had been touched.
Cynthia and Beatrice sat across from each other, their faces sporting tight, rehearsed smiles that failed to reach their cold eyes.
“Good morning, Julian,” Cynthia purred, adjusting her silk scarf as she buttered a piece of toast. “Mother and I were discussing the holiday gala coming up next month. We really think it’s time to bring in a professional child psychologist to prep Noah for the public appearance. We can't have him hiding in corners while your business partners are visiting.”
Julian didn't look up from his tablet. “Noah isn't attending the gala, Cynthia.”
Beatrice frowned, setting her teacup down with a sharp clink against the saucer. “Julian, don't be absurd! The boy needs socialization. He can't live like a feral animal locked up in this mausoleum forever. That new maid—what’s her name, Elena?—she’s already coddling him too much. I saw her bringing him a plate of pancakes with maple syrup in the library earlier. Completely violates the strict dietary regimen Dr. Sterling prescribed!”
Julian slowly lowered his tablet. The screen went dark, reflecting his hard, unblinking eyes.
“Elena brings him pancakes because Noah asked for them,” Julian said, his voice flat and dangerously quiet.
Cynthia scoffed, a tight, nervous laugh escaping her lips. “Please. The boy hasn't spoken a coherent sentence in two years. He doesn't ask for anything. He just points or grunts like a—'
“He spoke last night, Cynthia,” Julian interrupted, cutting her off with the precision of a guillotine blade.
The dining room fell into an absolute, suffocating silence.
Cynthia’s toast froze halfway to her mouth. Beatrice’s hand trembled slightly against the table, her tea sloshing over the rim of her cup.
“W-what did you say?” Beatrice stammered, her voice losing its icy composure.
“He spoke,” Julian repeated, standing up slowly from his chair, towering over them with a dark, terrifying authority. “Twenty-six months of silence broken in thirty seconds. And do you know what the first thing he said was?”
Julian leaned forward, resting his palms flat on the mahogany table.
“He looked right at Elena, placed his hand on her chest, and said: ‘Your heart is safe. You don’t have to hide anymore, Mommy.’”
Cynthia’s face drained of every drop of color. She looked away, her eyes darting nervously toward the hallway. Beatrice gripped the edge of the table so hard her knuckles turned purple.
“That... that’s ridiculous!” Cynthia squawked, her voice pitching upward into near-hysteria. “The boy is hallucinating! He’s mentally unstable! That little fraud of a maid probably rehearsed lines with him to trick you into keeping her on permanent payroll! She’s a manipulative opportunist, Julian! We need to fire her this instant before she—!”
The heavy double doors of the dining room swung open.
Harrison Cole, Julian’s senior corporate counsel and private investigator, stepped into the room holding a thick, brown leather folder. He didn't look at Cynthia or Beatrice. He walked straight up to Julian, placing the folder directly in front of him on the table.
“Good morning, Julian,” Harrison said formally, his voice cutting through the tense atmosphere. “The background check you requested on Elena Marlowe is complete.”
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Julian didn't break eye contact with his sister as he reached out and untied the leather string of the folder.
“Read it out loud, Harrison,” Julian commanded. “Let’s hear all about our new housekeeper.”
