Chapter 9
"Don't let her leave!" Emma shouted, pointing a gloved finger down the corridor.
William’s head snapped up. His grief vanished, replaced instantly by command. Still holding Ethan tightly against his chest with one arm, William reached into his tuxedo jacket with his free hand and pulled out his phone. He didn't chase her himself; his sole priority was the fragile child trembling in his arms.
"Lock down the estate," William barked into the phone, his voice carrying the authority of a man who owned everything around him. "Seal the front gates, lock the ballroom doors. No one leaves. Send the security team to the second-floor master corridor immediately. And call the police. Tell them we have an attempted murder."
Isabella froze at the top of the stairs. The heavy, polished oak doors at the bottom of the grand staircase slammed shut, followed by the distinct sound of heavy iron deadbolts sliding into place. Men in dark suits were already swarming the lower landing. There was nowhere to run.
She spun back toward William, her satin gown rustling frantically. The terror in her eyes morphed into cornered desperation.
"You think this changes anything?" Isabella screamed, her voice cracking, echoing shrilly against the high ceilings. "You think you can just throw me in a cell and play the happy family? You don't know the half of it, William! You don't know what's coming!"
William stood up slowly, keeping Ethan shielded behind his broad shoulder. "You're insane, Isabella. You’re going to rot in prison for the rest of your life."
"I am not the only one who wanted the boy gone!" Isabella shrieked, a manic, unhinged grin spreading across her face. "Do you really think a woman like me built a hidden room with a steel latch by myself? Do you think I knocked out the bricks and installed the iron grate while my manicurist was over? Open your eyes, William!"
Emma felt a chill rush through her veins, colder than the ice Isabella projected. The young housekeeper looked at the open wall panel. The woodwork was seamless. The iron grate was heavy, professionally installed, integrated perfectly into the architecture of the historic mansion. Isabella was right. Someone had to have built it. Someone on the inside.
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William’s jaw clenched. "Who helped you?"
Isabella just laughed, a high, thin sound that lacked any real humor. "Why don't you ask your perfect little staff, William? Why don't you ask the people who smile at you every day?"
