Chapter 5
The corridor of the second floor was bathed in the same flawless, neutral white lighting as the rest of the mansion, free of any muddy yellow cast. Nora’s elegant, cinched-waist uniform rustled softly as she approached the nursery door. To her immense, overwhelming relief, the heavy brass lock on the exterior of the door was disengaged.
Nora reached out, her fair, rosy hand trembling slightly as she turned the polished knob. She pushed the heavy door open, stepping into the quiet, dimly lit room.
"Oliver?" Nora whispered softly, her American accent gentle and melodic. "Sweetie, it's Nora. Are you awake?"
At first, the room appeared empty. The large, custom-built toddler bed was perfectly made, completely undisturbed. Panic flared in Nora's chest. She stepped further into the room, her eyes adjusting to the shadows. Then, she saw a tiny movement in the far corner, wedged tightly between a heavy wooden armoire and the wall.
Two-year-old Oliver Whitmore was huddled into a tight ball on the floor. He was dressed immaculately for the gala in a tiny, crisp white dress shirt, a tailored dark vest, and perfectly pressed trousers. His fair, rosy skin was pale, and his bright blue eyes—so achingly similar to his father's—were wide with absolute, unadulterated terror. He had his small hands clamped firmly over his ears.
"Oh, sweet boy," Nora breathed, her heart breaking entirely.
She dropped to her knees immediately, the short A-line skirt of her uniform settling around her legs on the plush carpet. She crawled the last few feet, keeping herself low so as not to intimidate him.
"Oliver," Nora murmured, her voice a warm, soothing vibration in the quiet room. "It's just me. It's Nora. Nobody is going to hurt you."
Oliver slowly lowered his hands from his ears. He looked at her, his lower lip trembling violently. Without making a single sound, the two-year-old launched himself forward. He collided with Nora’s chest, wrapping his tiny arms fiercely around her neck, burying his face into the crisp white collar of her maid uniform.
Nora closed her eyes, wrapping her arms securely around his small, trembling frame. She could feel his heart racing like a trapped bird beneath his expensive vest. This was not the behavior of a child who was simply fussy or tired. This was the visceral, instinctive reaction of a child who had been systematically terrorized.
"I've got you," Nora whispered fiercely, holding him tight. "I've got you, Oliver."
She knew she didn't have much time. The guests were waiting, and Damian Whitmore did not tolerate delays. But more pressingly, Camille was waiting.
Nora gently pulled back, framing Oliver’s small face in her hands. She wiped a stray tear from his cheek with her thumb.
"Listen to me, brave boy," Nora said softly, looking directly into his frightened eyes. "We have to go downstairs now. Your Daddy is waiting for you at the big table. He wants to see you."
Oliver vigorously shook his head, his tiny hands grabbing the lapels of Nora’s white apron. "No. The door. She closes the door."
The broken, whispered sentence sent a wave of homicidal fury through Nora’s veins, a fury she had absolutely no power to act upon. She was a maid; Camille was the future queen of the syndicate.
"I know, baby," Nora promised, her voice cracking slightly. "But Daddy is down there. And I will be right there with you. I am going to bring you a very special dessert, okay? I won't leave you alone with her."
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Oliver sniffled, searching her face for any sign of a lie. Finding only fierce, protective devotion in Nora's eyes, the two-year-old finally gave a slow, hesitant nod.
Nora stood up, lifting the heavy toddler securely into her arms. She carried him out of the dark nursery and back into the bright, cinematic light of the hallway, carrying him toward the lion's den.
