Chapter 3
The silence in the grand dining gallery was a physical, suffocating pressure. The tall candles flickering inside their silver candelabras seemed to be the only things moving. The bright, luminous colors of the room felt painfully sharp, illuminating the exact moment the polished illusion of the Kincaid empire began to fracture.
Without asking for permission, without offering a single word of explanation to the terrifying man standing beside her, Mina dropped to her knees. Her sophisticated black maid dress bunched around her as her trembling fingers reached for the concealed brass latch on the side of the bookcase.
"What on earth is that girl doing?" a wealthy socialite whispered loudly from the nearest table, her rosy skin flushing with indignation.
"Should my guests be concerning themselves with the actions of my staff?" Alden asked the room without turning his head, his deep, interrogative voice instantly silencing the murmurs.
Mina’s fingers found the cool metal of the latch. She pulled it firmly. The mechanism clicked, and with a heavy, smooth glide, she pulled the entire bookcase open, revealing a hidden, softly lit service room behind the walls of the dining gallery.
The air in the concealed room was stale. Standing just inside the doorway, illuminated by the soft light spilling from the main gallery, was a six-year-old boy.
Owen Hollis was dressed in a creased shirt, a small cardigan, and socks. His fair skin was pale, his rosy cheeks stained with the faint tracks of dried tears. He looked incredibly small and fragile, but his eyes lit up the moment the bookcase swung open. He had recognized his mother's humming through the walls, and rolling the toy car had been his desperate plea for rescue.
Mina let out a ragged, agonizing gasp. She looked toward Alden, her expressive brows lifting helplessly as tears gathered immediately in her eyes and spilled over her delicate cheekbones.
"My son," Mina breathed.
Her voice broke quietly on the word "son," a sound so saturated with profound grief and overwhelming relief that it sent a visible shockwave through the attentive guests.
Alden’s broad shoulders tensed beneath his tailored dark suit. His cold, perceptive eyes locked onto the small boy, processing the sheer impossibility of the situation. A child had been imprisoned inside the walls of his own mansion, steps away from where he dined every evening. The refined tattoos on his hands flexed as his fingers curled into loose fists.
"Did you know this child was hidden within the walls of my home, Mina?" Alden asked, his voice dropping into a register that promised absolute devastation.
"I didn't know where he was," Mina sobbed, reaching into the hidden room. She took Owen’s small, trembling hand in hers, pulling the boy gently into the bright, golden light of the dining gallery. She wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his small cardigan. "I swear I didn't know."
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"If you were ignorant of his location, who orchestrated his captivity?" Alden asked, his angular face hardening into a mask of pure, unadulterated lethal intent.
Before Mina could answer, the rustle of sculpted satin broke the heavy silence. Juliana stepped forward, her diamond earrings catching the light as she moved swiftly toward the open doorway, desperate to reclaim control of a narrative that was rapidly spiraling into disaster.
