Chapter 3 - THE FADED TICKET
The dining room chandelier cast harsh shadows across the table.
Kieran stared at the faded piece of paper resting beside his late wife’s silver locket.
It was a standard railway ticket from a private line out of upstate New York. The date stamped in faint black ink was exactly three days after Julian’s supposed death.
But it wasn't the date that made Kieran’s chest tighten.
It was the passenger name printed at the bottom.
Evelyn Reed.
Kieran looked at Annie. The young woman was trembling, her hand hovering over Flora’s shoulder as if shielding the child from the fallout.
“Annie,” Kieran said, his voice dangerously low. “Who is Evelyn Reed?”
Miranda moved suddenly.
She lunged toward the table, her manicured fingers swiping wildly at the ticket.
“It’s garbage!” Miranda shrieked. “She’s trying to frame me! She found trash in the study and she’s—”
Kieran caught Miranda’s wrist mid-air.
His grip was like iron.
He didn't squeeze to hurt her, but he didn't let her move an inch.
“I asked Annie a question,” Kieran said, his dark eyes fixed on Miranda’s pale, terrified face.
He dropped her wrist.
Miranda stumbled backward, rubbing her arm, her chest heaving.
Kieran turned his attention back to the young woman with the bruised cheek.
“Who is Evelyn Reed?” he repeated.
Annie swallowed hard. She didn't look at the floor this time. She looked directly at Miranda.
“That’s her real name, Mr. Ashbourne,” Annie whispered.
Silence filled the room, thick and suffocating.
Flora looked up at her father, her large, innocent eyes wide with confusion. “Daddy? Why does Miranda have a fake name?”
Kieran’s mind spun. For eight months, he had known this woman as Miranda Wells. A successful art curator. A woman from a wealthy Boston family who had charmed him at a charity gala.
He had brought her into his home. He had introduced her to his daughter.
“Is this true?” Kieran demanded, turning to his fiancée.
Miranda laughed. It was a high, brittle sound that bordered on hysteria.
“This is absurd!” she cried, smoothing her silk dress. “Kieran, are you honestly listening to a maid who clearly forged a ticket? I come from the Wells family! My father is a judge! You’ve seen my ID, you’ve seen my passport!”
“I’ve seen what you showed me,” Kieran corrected coldly.
He pulled his phone from his pocket.
“Let’s find out. I’m calling Marcus.”
Marcus was Kieran’s head of security. A former intelligence officer who didn't take kindly to lies.
Miranda’s confident facade cracked entirely.
“Don’t call him,” she snapped, her voice losing its cultured Boston accent, dropping into something harsher, sharper.
Kieran paused, his thumb hovering over the screen.
“Why not?”
“Because,” Miranda sneered, dropping the helpless victim act, “if you start digging into my past, Kieran, I’m going to start digging into yours.”
Kieran stood perfectly still.
“I have nothing to hide.”
“Don’t you?” Miranda taunted, stepping closer. “What about the night your perfect wife died? The police ruled it an accidental fall down the stairs. But we both know she was packing her bags to leave you, don’t we?”
Kieran felt a physical blow to his gut.
Only three people in the world knew his wife had been packing a suitcase that night.
Him. The lead detective.
And his wife.
“How do you know that?” Kieran whispered.
Miranda smiled. It was a cold, victorious expression.
“Because Julian told me,” she said smoothly. “Julian told me everything about this house. He told me about the vault. He told me about the locket. He told me how much you hated him.”
Kieran’s hands curled into fists.
“You admit it, then. You knew Julian. You’ve been lying to me since the day we met.”
“I did it for survival!” Miranda shouted, her eyes blazing. “You have millions, Kieran! You have this massive estate! I needed a way in, and Julian promised me a cut if I found what he left behind!”
Kieran looked at her with pure disgust.
“Pack your things,” Kieran said. “Marcus will escort you off the property in exactly ten minutes. If you’re not gone, I’m having you arrested for fraud and assault.”
Miranda scoffed. “You wouldn’t dare. If I talk to the press about what really happened on this staircase—”
“Let them print what they want,” Kieran said, his voice absolute steel. “Get out.”
Miranda glared at him. Then she glared at Annie.
“You’re going to regret this, you little rat,” Miranda spat.
She turned on her heel and stormed out of the dining room.
The heavy doors slammed behind her.
Kieran exhaled a long, shaky breath. He immediately knelt down and pulled Flora into a tight, desperate hug.
“Are you okay, baby?” he whispered against her hair.
“She was scary, Daddy,” Flora cried, burying her face in his neck.
“I know. She’s gone now. She’s never coming back.”
Kieran stood up and looked at Annie.
The young woman looked ready to collapse. She was clutching the serving tray to her chest as if it were a shield.
“Annie,” Kieran said softly. “Thank you. You protected my daughter.”
Annie shook her head. Tears were streaming down her face.
“I didn't do enough, Mr. Ashbourne,” she cried. “I should have stopped her.”
“You did stop her,” Kieran reassured her.
But Annie was backing away toward the kitchen doors.
“I have to go,” Annie whispered frantically. “I have to pack my bags.”
Kieran frowned, taking a step toward her. “Annie, what are you talking about? You aren't fired. You have a home here as long as you want it.”
Annie shook her head violently.
She dropped the serving tray. It clattered against the floor.
She reached into her apron and pulled out a heavy, velvet-lined mahogany box.
Kieran froze.
It was the box he kept locked in his private study.
“I didn’t just find the train ticket, Mr. Ashbourne,” Annie sobbed. “Miranda didn't just slap me because of the locket.”
May you like
Annie placed the box on the table.
“She slapped me because she caught me stealing this from her purse.”
