Chapter 2
Deep within the sprawling corridors of the mansion, far from the warmth of the crystal chandeliers, Lena Whitmore was running out of time. At twenty-seven, the housemaid possessed a beauty that rivaled any movie star in the grand dining hall. She had a softly rounded face, delicate cheekbones, and highly expressive brows. Her fair, rosy skin was pale tonight, reflecting a deep, internalized panic. Her thick hair was gathered meticulously into a loose, low bun, ensuring not a single strand detracted from her polished professionalism. She wore a sophisticated black maid dress featuring a cinched waist, a fitted silhouette, and a short A-line skirt. A neatly tied white apron, paired with a crisp white collar and cuffs, completed her elegant appearance.
"Has anyone seen Noel?" Lena asked, her voice trembling as she cornered a passing server in the dimly lit hallway.
"I haven't seen him since before the appetizers went out, Lena," the young man replied, balancing a tray of empty champagne flutes. "Have you checked the library?"
"I've checked everywhere upstairs," Lena said, her expressive brows drawing together in profound distress. "He wouldn't just wander off. He’s been terrified of the crowds all day."
Lena hurried down the back service staircase, her sensible black shoes making no sound against the runner. Noel Wexler, Corbin’s six-year-old son, was a fragile, quiet boy. His mother had died two years ago, leaving him with a deep, lingering grief that made him shy and reclusive. Over the past year, Lena had become his primary caregiver, offering him the maternal warmth that the cold, cavernous mansion so desperately lacked.
"Noel?" Lena called out softly as she entered the massive, stainless-steel commercial kitchens. The kitchen staff was in a frenzy, plating the main courses, oblivious to her search. "Noel, sweetie, are you in here?"
She moved past the bustling chefs, her heart hammering against her ribs. She reached the long, narrow corridor that housed the dry storage and walk-in freezers. It was completely deserted.
"Noel!" she called out again, her American accent echoing slightly off the tiled walls.
A faint, muffled sound caught her attention. She froze, tilting her head. It was a rhythmic, desperate thumping, accompanied by a high-pitched whimper.
"Lena? Are you out there?" a tiny, muffled voice cried out.
"Noel!" Lena gasped, sprinting toward the heavy, reinforced oak door of the deep-storage pantry. The brass deadbolt on the outside of the door had been turned, locking whoever was inside in total darkness.
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"Please, let me out!" the six-year-old boy sobbed from the other side, his small fists pounding against the thick wood. "It's dark! I'm scared!"
"I'm here, Noel! I'm right here!" Lena shouted, her hands shaking violently as she grasped the heavy brass deadbolt. She threw her weight against the locking mechanism, twisting it with all her might until it gave way with a loud, metallic clack.
