Chapter 3 - THE WATCHFUL EYE
The mansion felt different that afternoon. The air was thick with unspoken tension, a suffocating weight that seemed to press down on Claire’s shoulders every time she walked past Dean or Madeline.
Gabriel’s associate, a severe-looking man from Chicago, had arrived. Gabriel and Dean were locked in the study for hours, their voices low and sharp. Madeline played the perfect hostess, arranging catering and pouring scotch, gliding through the halls with the practiced grace of a future mafia wife.
Claire kept the girls upstairs. She locked the door to the playroom under the guise of an "indoor fort-building day," effectively barricading herself, Lucy, and Abigail away from the rest of the house.
“Aunt Claire?” Abigail asked, peeking her head out from a fortress made of velvet sofa cushions and silk blankets. “Can we go to the garden? I want to show Lucy the koi fish.”
“Not today, sweetheart,” Claire said, forcing a bright smile. “The ground is too muddy from the storm. Let’s paint instead.”
Abigail pouted slightly but accepted the alternative, diving into the watercolor set. Lucy, however, was far more observant than her three years suggested. She toddled over to Claire and patted her knee.
“Mommy sad?”
“No, baby. Mommy is just thinking.”
Claire was thinking about how to keep them safe. She noticed how Dean’s eyes tracked her when she served lunch. She noticed how Madeline casually asked about Abigail’s medication schedule, pretending to take an interest in her future stepdaughter’s health.
“When does she take the blue bottle, Claire? Is it strictly at three o'clock?”
The question echoed in Claire’s mind. Why did Madeline care about the exact timing?
At 2:45 PM, Gabriel briefly emerged from his study. He looked exhausted, the weight of his criminal empire settling deeply into the lines around his eyes. He paused outside the playroom, leaning against the doorframe just to watch the girls paint.
“Everything alright, Claire?” Gabriel asked. His dark eyes scanned her face. He was a man who noticed everything; he survived by reading the micro-expressions of dangerous men. He could see she was wound tighter than a drum.
“Everything is fine, Mr. Mercer,” Claire lied smoothly. “Just keeping them occupied.”
Gabriel lingered. “You look pale.”
“It’s just a slight headache, sir.”
He stared at her for a moment longer, clearly unconvinced, but the Chicago associate called his name from down the hall.
“If you need anything, let my guards know,” Gabriel said softly.
It was an unprecedented offer. Gabriel Mercer did not offer his personal security detail to the household staff. Claire nodded, swallowing hard. She wanted to scream the truth at him, but Dean stepped out of the study, his cold eyes locking onto Claire.
“Coming, boss?” Dean asked, his tone perfectly casual.
“Yes,” Gabriel replied, turning away.
May you like
Claire closed the door. She had never felt so entirely alone.
---
