THE BILLIONAIRE’S WIFE, THE MAID, AND THE SECRET IN THE EAST WING

Three months later.

The morning sun poured through the arched windows of the grand foyer, casting a warm, golden glow across the marble floor.

I stood by the staircase, holding a silver tray with two cups of tea.

But I wasn’t wearing my black maid’s uniform.

I was wearing a tailored navy-blue pantsuit.

Julian walked down the stairs, adjusting his tie. He looked rested. The dark circles under his eyes were gone.

“Good morning, Clara,” he smiled.

“Good morning, sir,” I replied.

“I thought we agreed you would drop the ‘sir’,” he chuckled. “You’re the Estate Manager now. Technically, you run this house.”

I smiled back. “Old habits die hard, Julian.”

Beatrice was gone.

Her trial was highly publicized. The prescription bottle, the forged key, and the medical records proving the poison in Margaret’s system were more than enough for a conviction.

She was sentenced to twenty-five years in federal prison without the possibility of parole.

She didn’t get a dime of the estate.

I walked into the sunroom.

Margaret was sitting in her wheelchair near the window, a blanket draped over her lap.

She was looking at a framed photograph on the side table.

It was the black-and-white picture of Arthur. But next to it, Julian had placed a new photo—a picture of him, his mother, and me, taken the day of my promotion.

“Your tea, ma’am,” I said gently, setting the cup down.

Margaret looked up at me. Her eyes were bright, clear, and full of life. The doctors had flushed the sedatives from her system, and she was sharper than she had been in years.

“Thank you, Clara,” she said.

She reached out and took my hand.

“I never got to properly thank you,” Margaret said softly. “For what you did that day. You stood between a billionaire’s wife and an old woman you barely knew.”

“You were my responsibility,” I said simply.

Margaret smiled. She reached into her pocket.

She pulled out the small, velvet jewelry box.

“I want you to have this,” she said, pressing it into my palm.

I opened it.

The heavy sapphire necklace stared back at me.

I gasped. “Ma’am, no. I can’t accept this. It’s worth millions.”

“It’s worth nothing if it isn’t worn by someone with a good heart,” Margaret insisted. “It belonged to my grandmother. Then, unfortunately, to Beatrice. Now, it belongs to you. Because you are family, Clara. You protected this house when my son couldn’t.”

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

I closed the box and held it tightly against my chest.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Julian walked into the room, holding the morning paper.

He leaned down and kissed his mother on the cheek.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he asked.

“It is,” Margaret agreed, looking out at the sprawling green lawns of the estate.

I stood beside them, feeling the warmth of the sun on my face.