Chapter 3
The procession from the bright, luminous dining hall to Dorian Ashcombe’s private study was agonizingly tense. The study, though smaller, maintained the clear lighting and gentle golden highlights of the rest of the mansion. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves constructed of polished walnut lined the walls, and a secondary marble fireplace cast a soft, dancing glow across the room. Dorian took his seat behind a massive mahogany desk, gesturing for the others to stand before him.
Flora refused to let go of Ellis. The seven-year-old boy clung to her hand, his fair skin flushed and rosy from crying. Saskia paced the length of the Persian rug, the heavy satin of her gown rustling with every frantic step.
“This is an absolute outrage,” Saskia hissed, crossing her arms defensively. “I brought this boy to you, Dorian. I found him in the system. I expedited the adoption papers because I knew how much you wanted an heir. And you are going to let a grieving, delusional housemaid humiliate me on the night of our engagement?”
Dorian leaned back in his leather chair, resting his hands on the armrests. The family signet ring caught the firelight. His gaze was entirely devoid of empathy. “Why do you speak of expediting adoption papers when the boy just explicitly stated that you told him he was sold?”
Saskia scoffed, rolling her eyes in a desperate attempt to feign exasperation. “He is seven years old! Children in the system create elaborate fantasies to cope with the trauma of abandonment. His mother was a drug addict who left him at a fire station. That is what the file says!”
Flora stepped forward, her dark eyes flashing with a mother’s fierce, protective rage. “I have never touched a drug in my life! I worked three jobs to keep a roof over our heads! I trusted you! I brought him to your shelter’s weekend program so I could pick up extra shifts. You stood in my living room and held my hands while I wept over an empty coffin!”
“Are you suggesting that my fiancée fabricated a death to steal a child from a working-class mother?” Dorian asked, his deep voice directed at Flora, though his eyes remained locked on Saskia.
“Yes!” Flora cried, pulling Ellis slightly behind her. “Six months ago. The charity picnic at Miller’s Creek. She said Ellis wandered off. She said the river took him before anyone could reach him. I searched the banks for days. She brought me a piece of his torn jacket.”
Dorian slowly turned his attention back to Saskia. The slow, rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner was the only sound bridging the gap between his words. “Is it not a statistical marvel, Saskia, that the very same boy who was swept away by a river at your charity event managed to wash up on my doorstep as an untraceable orphan?”
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“It is a resemblance!” Saskia yelled, her chest heaving. “Look at her, Dorian! Look at her skin, her hair. She is a generic, pretty maid. The boy looks like her, yes, but he is not hers! You cannot possibly believe this insane conspiracy over the woman who is about to become your wife!”
Dorian leaned forward, resting his elbows on the polished desk, intertwining his fingers. “Why are you sweating, Saskia, if your conscience is as clean as you claim?”
