Chapter 4 - The Expulsion
Down in the basement quarters of the Manhattan estate, Nora packed her meager belongings into a worn canvas duffel bag.
Her hands were shaking slightly, not from fear, but from the adrenaline surge of knowing what was coming. She had sent the footage. She had alerted the devil himself about what his bride was doing to his mother.
Now, her only goal was to get out of the building before Celeste’s security guards realized she hadn't actually left the premises.
Before she could zip her bag, a sharp knock sounded at her door.
Nora froze, her hand dropping into her apron pocket where she still held the micro-SD card backup.
The door pushed open before she could answer.
It wasn't one of Celeste’s hired thugs. It was Vance, the towering, broad-shouldered head of security whose face looked like it had been carved from a block of granite, flanked by two armed guards in black tactical suits.
Nora stepped back, raising her hands defensively. “I’m leaving. I was just packing—”
“Nora,” Vance interrupted, his rough voice surprisingly gentle as he lowered his chin in a respectful nod. “Put the bag down. You’re not going anywhere.”
Nora stared at him, bewildered. “Miss Beaumont ordered me fired. If I’m caught here—”
“Miss Beaumont no longer gives orders in this house,” Vance said, stepping fully into the room and gesturing for his men to secure the corridor. “The boss has reviewed the files you sent.”
A shiver ran down Nora’s spine. “Luca?”
“Mr. Ventresca is inbound,” Vance confirmed, a grim, humorless smile touching the corner of his mouth. “And he’s not happy. Come with me, Nora. The master wants to speak with you in the private study. And bring your evidence.”
Nora swallowed hard, grabbed her jacket and the micro-SD card, and followed Vance out of the servant quarters.
Upstairs on the penthouse level, the atmosphere was thick with sudden, palpable tension.
Celeste Beaumont was currently standing in the grand foyer, dressed in a stunning evening gown, surrounded by three wedding planners who were frantically reviewing floral arrangements for the upcoming ceremony.
When she saw Nora walking out of the service corridor accompanied by the head of security, Celeste’s face flushed with furious indignation.
“What is the meaning of this?” Celeste snapped, marching over, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. “Vance! Why hasn't this thief been thrown out onto the street yet? I gave explicit orders!”
Vance didn't even break his stride. He looked down at Celeste with undisguised contempt.
“Orders have changed, Miss Beaumont,” Vance said flatly.
Celeste scoffed, crossing her arms. “By whose authority? When Luca returns from Zurich tomorrow, he will fire every single one of you for insubordination! I am the future mistress of this house!”
“Are you?”
A deep, velvet voice cut through the grand foyer like a razor-sharp blade.
The sound of that voice made Celeste freeze mid-sentence.
From the private elevator at the end of the hall—an elevator that required both retinal scan and master cryptographic keys to operate from the outside—a figure stepped out into the foyer.
It was Luca Ventresca.
He wasn't in Zurich. He was standing right there in the hallway, wearing a dark tailored suit, his coat unbuttoned, his dark eyes fixed on Celeste with a look so terrifyingly devoid of emotion that the wedding planners dropped their clipboards in sheer terror.
Color drained completely from Celeste’s face. She staggered back a half-step, her breath catching in her throat.
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“L-Luca?” she stammered, her voice pitching into high-pitched panic. “You... you’re supposed to be in Switzerland... your flight logs—”
“A clever illusion, Celeste,” Luca said softly, his deep voice echoing in the vast marble room as he walked slowly toward her. “Just like the illusion that you cared about my family. Just like the illusion that you were fit to carry the Ventresca name.”
