Chapter 3 - The Price of Treason
The barrel of the gun against my skin was cold, but the voice in my ear was icy. Claire wasn't the polished debutante anymore; the mask had cracked. Behind her stood two of the Whitlock family’s private security guards—men who didn't look like they were here for a formal engagement party.
“Turn around,” Claire commanded, her voice trembling with a mixture of rage and adrenaline.
I turned, moving slowly. My hand, hidden under the bulk of Daniel’s coat, was gripping the edge of the desk.
“You’re a clever little thief, aren't you?” Claire sneered, gesturing to the computer screen. “You thought you could come into our house and play detective? You’re a maid. Your job is to clean up the messes we make, not look at them.”
“Is that what you call it?” I asked, my voice steady despite the gun. “A mess? You murdered my husband. You abducted my brother.”
Claire laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. “Your husband was an idiot. He thought he could stand in the way of progress. And your brother? He’s been a recurring headache for my father for months.”
She leaned in, her eyes wide and manic. “Did you really think Daniel loved you? He’s using you, just like he used Caleb. The only difference is, you’re currently carrying his child.”
My blood went cold. “What did you say?”
“Oh, don’t play coy.” She reached out, tracing the line of my jaw with the barrel of the gun. “You’re seven months pregnant. And Daniel hasn't been with me in three. Do the math, Hannah. You’re not just a maid. You’re the vessel for his heir.”
The revelation hit me like a physical blow, but I didn't let it show. I had to stay sharp.
“You’re wrong,” I said. “It’s Aaron’s baby.”
“It doesn't matter whose it is,” she whispered. “What matters is that it’s the leverage that will destroy Daniel’s reputation. If it comes out that he’s been sleeping with his maid, that he’s fathered a child he forced into a position of servitude, his union board will turn on him. He’ll lose the waterfront. He’ll lose everything.”
She turned to her guards. “Take her. Put her in the van. We’re going to the docks.”
“No,” I said.
She looked at me, surprised by the defiance.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I reached into the pocket of Daniel’s coat, where he had slipped a small, metallic object earlier—a panic button connected to the estate’s security grid. I pressed it.
The lights in the room went out instantly, plunging us into total darkness.
The guards shouted, the sound of boots scraping against the wood. I dropped to the floor, sliding under the desk.
“Find her!” Claire screamed.
Gunshots shattered the silence. The bullets tore into the mahogany desk above me, splinters raining down like shrapnel. I crawled toward the bathroom door, my heart hammering against my ribs. I had to get to the service stairwell.
I pushed the bathroom door open, stumbling into the dark, tiled space. I climbed through the laundry chute—a desperate, narrow slide that I had mapped out my first week here. I tumbled down, hitting the pile of linens in the basement with a thud that knocked the wind out of me.
I lay there for a moment, gasping, my hands pressed against my stomach. Please, be okay, I prayed. Please.
I heard footsteps approaching. Not the heavy, clomping gait of the security guards, but the light, brisk walk of someone who knew the house well.
“Hannah?”
It was Martin Hale.
I scrambled out of the linens, pulling myself up. “Martin! You have to help me. They’re coming.”
He looked at me, his eyes wide. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “There’s a tunnel underneath the foundation. It leads to the boathouse. Daniel is waiting there.”
“Where’s the baby, Martin?” I asked, my voice trembling.
He looked at me, his expression unreadable. “The baby is the only reason you’re still alive, Hannah. You need to keep it that way.”
He handed me the keys. “Go. Don’t stop for anything.”
I sprinted toward the basement exit, the scent of damp earth and oil filling my nose. I found the hidden door behind the wine racks. I turned the key, the heavy stone door creaking open.
As I stepped into the tunnel, I heard the sound of the house exploding into chaos behind me. Alarms were ringing, and the muffled sound of shouting echoed through the vents. Daniel was making his move.
I ran. The tunnel was dark, filled with the sound of dripping water and scurrying rats, but it was my path to freedom. Or so I thought.
Halfway through, I stopped. There was a light ahead. A man stood there, holding a tablet.
It was Richard Whitlock.
He looked at me, smiling. “You were always so predictable, Hannah. Poor, grieving, little Hannah.”
He didn't have a gun. He had a detonator.
“The tunnel is wired, Hannah,” he said. “If you move another step, the whole boathouse comes down with you, and Daniel inside it.”
I stopped, my heart sinking.
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“You’ve been a very busy girl,” he continued. “But you forgot one thing. The Carvers don't just own the docks. They own the people who work them. And I’ve bought every single one of them.”
He stepped toward me, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying, absolute certainty. “Give me the drive, Hannah. And maybe you’ll live long enough to see the sunrise.”
