Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN AT THE GATE

The first thing I noticed was her eyes.

Not her clothes.

Not the dirt on her shoes.

Not the fact that she looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

Her eyes.

Because they weren’t the eyes of someone begging for help.

They were the eyes of someone carrying a secret.

Prescott brought her into the security room instead of my office.

Smart.

He knew me well enough to understand that strangers didn’t walk into the Mercer mansion without being searched first.

The woman stood quietly between two guards.

She looked nothing like the people who usually entered my home.

Everyone who came through those doors wore expensive suits, designer dresses, and fake smiles.

She wore a faded brown coat.

Her hair was messy from the wind.

Her hands were rough.

The kind of hands that belonged to someone who had spent years working instead of living.

But she didn’t look afraid.

That bothered me.

“Your name,” I said.

She looked at me.

“Clara Bennett.”

“Why are you here?”

Her eyes moved toward the hallway leading to my children’s rooms.

“Because your son and daughter don’t have much time.”

My jaw tightened.

“You have five seconds to explain how you know that.”

She didn’t move.

“Because I saw their medical records.”

My security team immediately stepped forward.

I raised my hand.

“Where?”

She looked down.

“At St. Vincent’s.”

The room became silent.

St. Vincent’s.

That was where Genevieve had spent her final weeks.

Before she died.

Before everything changed.

“How did you get access?”

“I didn’t steal them.”

“Then answer me.”

Clara swallowed.

“I worked there.”

“As what?”

“A nurse.”

I studied her carefully.

“A nurse who somehow knows information protected by my security?”

Her expression changed.

Not fear.

Pain.

“I know because I was there when your wife found out.”

My entire body went still.

“My wife?”

“Yes.”

I stepped closer.

“Careful.”

My voice became colder.

“You are talking about my wife.”

“I know.”

“Then you know I don’t tolerate people using her name for attention.”

“I’m not.”

“Then prove it.”

Clara looked directly into my eyes.

“Genevieve didn’t die believing she was going to die.”

A chill moved through me.

“What does that mean?”

She reached into her coat slowly.

Two guards immediately raised their weapons.

“Stop.”

Clara froze.

“I’m only taking out a letter.”

She pulled a folded piece of paper from inside her pocket.

An old paper.

Worn.

Like she had carried it for a long time.

She handed it to me.

“I promised her I would give this to you if anything happened.”

I stared at the letter.

My name was written on the front.

Lawson.

In Genevieve’s handwriting.

The world around me disappeared.

No sound.

No movement.

Only that name.

My wife’s handwriting.

A handwriting I thought I would never see again.

I looked up.

“Why didn’t you give me this two years ago?”

Clara’s face became heavy.

“Because I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because someone was watching me.”

My eyes narrowed.

“Who?”

She looked toward the security cameras.

Then back at me.

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