Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH
Nobody moved.
Not the politicians.
Not the businessmen.
Not the women glittering beneath the chandeliers.
Not even my security men.
Oliver’s tiny voice seemed to remain suspended in the ballroom long after the word had left his lips.
“Mommy?”
Emma Carter’s face went white.
I crossed the floor before I consciously decided to move.
Every instinct I possessed told me to grab her, drag her into my office, lock the door, and demand answers until I understood exactly who had entered my house.
But Oliver reached for her.
That stopped me.
His small hand closed around Emma’s wrist.
“Don’t.”
My son had spoken twice.
Two words in two years.
Both because of her.
Emma looked at me.
There were tears in her eyes.
Not triumph.
Not calculation.
Fear.
“Mr. Hale—”
“Everybody out.”
My voice cut through the ballroom.
No one argued.
Music stopped. Conversations died. My men began guiding guests toward the doors while my consigliere, Vincent Russo, approached me.
“Preston.”
“Clear the house.”
His eyes moved to Emma.
“You sure?”
“No.”
That was precisely why I wanted everyone gone.
Within fifteen minutes, the ballroom that had held four hundred people contained only Oliver, Emma, Vincent, three security men, and me.
Oliver still held Emma’s wrist.
I crouched beside him.
“Buddy.”
His eyes shifted toward me.
Hearing his voice had broken something inside my chest.
I wanted another word.
Anything.
My name.
Dad.
Water.
I didn’t care.
But Oliver lowered his eyes again.
Silence returned.
Emma whispered, “Don’t pressure him.”
I looked at her.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do with my son.”
She flinched.
Immediately, Oliver tightened his grip on her.
That told me more than I wanted it to.
I stood.
“Who taught you that song?”
Emma swallowed.
“No one.”
Wrong answer.
Vincent closed the ballroom doors.
I stepped closer.
“That melody was written by my wife.”
Emma looked toward Oliver.
“Not here.”
“You walked into my house using a false employment reference three months ago.”
Her eyes snapped toward mine.
That surprised her.
Good.
I had ordered my security team to investigate every employee after Serena’s death. Emma’s references had seemed legitimate at first, but Vincent had discovered an inconsistency two weeks earlier. We had not confronted her because she had never gone near my office, my meetings, or Oliver.
Until tonight.
“Your reference from the Palmer residence,” I continued, “came from a disconnected number. The employment agency that supposedly placed you closed four years ago.”
Emma slowly stood.
Oliver rose with her.
“Preston,” Vincent warned quietly.
I ignored him.
“Who are you?”
Emma stared at me for several seconds.
Then she reached beneath the collar of her maid’s uniform.
My guards moved instantly.
“Easy,” Emma said.
She pulled out a thin silver chain.
A small pendant hung from it.
My lungs stopped working.
I knew that pendant.
A silver crescent moon with a tiny sapphire set into the center.
I had bought two of them in Paris twelve years earlier.
One for Serena.
One for—
No.
That was impossible.
I grabbed the pendant.
“Where did you get this?”
Emma’s voice cracked.
“From my sister.”
The ballroom disappeared around me.
I remembered Paris.
Serena laughing in a jewelry shop.
Her insisting we buy two identical necklaces.
One for her.
One for the younger sister she had not seen in years.
A sister Serena almost never discussed.
A sister whose name I had never been told.
Serena had only said they had been separated after their mother died.
I released the necklace.
“Your sister.”
Emma nodded.
“Serena.”
Vincent swore under his breath.
I stared at her.
“No.”
“She was seventeen when I last saw her.”
“Serena had no family.”
“She had me.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.” Emma’s eyes filled. “I expected you to kill me before I could prove it.”
Oliver suddenly looked between us.
Then he whispered something so softly I nearly missed it.
“Aunt Emma.”
My blood turned cold.
Emma covered her mouth.
I looked at my son.
“How do you know that name?”
Oliver stared at the floor.
“Oliver.”
Nothing.
Emma knelt.
“Sweetheart.”
He looked at her.
“Did your mommy tell you about me?”
His eyes filled with tears.
Then he nodded.
I felt as if someone had struck me.
Serena had told our son about Emma.
But never me.
Why?
Emma looked up.
“She knew I was alive.”
I could barely speak.
“You said you hadn’t seen her since you were seventeen.”
“I hadn’t.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“She found me last year.”
Everything inside me became still.
Serena had died two years ago.
Emma seemed to realize what she had said.
Vincent stepped forward.
“Last year?”
Emma closed her eyes.
When she opened them, she looked terrified.
“Not Serena.”
“Then who?”
Emma glanced toward the doors.
Before she could answer, one of my security men entered quickly.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“We found something in Miss Carter’s room.”
He held out a small envelope.
My name was written across the front.
Not typed.
Written.
I recognized the handwriting immediately.
My dead wife’s handwriting.
I tore it open.
Inside was a single photograph.
Serena stood outside a church beside Emma.
The photograph had been taken only six months before Serena died.
On the back, Serena had written:
If anything happens to me, Emma knows why. Trust her before you trust the men closest to you.
I read the sentence twice.
Then I looked at Vincent.
My oldest friend.
My consigliere.
The man standing closest to me.
His expression changed.
Not much.
May you like
But enough.
And suddenly every door in the ballroom locked at once.
