Chapter 2 - The Summons
The next morning at eight sharp, I sat behind the massive mahogany desk in my study. The room smelled of old leather, expensive bourbon, and tobacco—a room designed to intimidate corrupt politicians and rival family bosses.
I pressed the silver intercom button on my desk. “Send Clara Reed in.”
Two minutes later, a soft knock sounded at the door. Clara stepped into the study, her hands folded neatly over her apron. She looked smaller in the vast room, her hazel eyes fixed on the floor three feet in front of my desk.
“You asked to see me, Mr. Hale?” she asked softly.
I leaned back in my leather armchair, resting my chin on my laced fingers, studying her face. Up close, I noticed the faint purple shadows under her eyes, the delicate structure of her jaw, and a small, faded scar just along her hairline.
“You were hired to clean this house, Clara,” I began, my voice cold, calm, and measured.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why are you caring for my mother?”
She hesitated, her long eyelashes fluttering as she finally raised her head to look me in the eye. There was no fear in her gaze—only a strange, quiet dignity that surprised me.
“Because she was scared, sir,” Clara replied simply.
I stared at her, my jaw tightening. “She has four full-time, board-certified private nurses. She has a clinical coordinator earning half a million dollars a year to monitor her comfort.”
“They monitor her condition, Mr. Hale,” Clara countered, her voice steady despite the subtle tremor in her shoulders. “They check her blood pressure. They change her IV bags. They write reports on their iPads. That is not the same as sitting beside someone in the dark when they think they might die before sunrise.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. They irritated me intensely—mostly because I knew, with absolute, terrifying clarity, that she was right.
Clara stepped forward slightly, her hands relaxing at her sides. “She doesn't like the nurses touching her head, Mr. Hale. The chemotherapy made her scalp burn. They were too fast with the brushes. She asked me three weeks ago if I would help her when it started falling out in clumps on her pillow.”
“Three weeks ago?” I repeated, my voice dropping an octave. “And you didn't inform the medical director?”
“She begged me not to,” Clara said quietly. “She didn't want you to see her breaking down. She told me... she said her son had enough empires to run without watching his mother turn into a ghost.”
I sat rigid in my chair.
Clara told me about the nights my mother couldn't sleep because the bone pain was too severe. About the silver hair falling onto her silk pillowcases. About the specific, lukewarm chamomile tea she begged for when the chemotherapy nausea became unbearable—tea that wasn't on the nutritionist’s approved diet chart.
Things happening under my own roof. Things happening ten yards down the gallery from my bedroom.
Things I knew absolutely nothing about.
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I had built an iron fortress to protect Eleanor Hale from assassins, rival families, and legal subpoenas. But inside the walls, she was dying alone in a crowded room.
Before I could answer, the heavy double doors of the study creaked open.
