Chapter 3 - Shadows in the East Wing
The service corridors of the Prescott estate were designed to be invisible. Built behind thick plaster walls and covered with sound-dampening acoustic panels, they allowed the estate’s extensive domestic staff to maintain the sprawling mansion without ever disturbing the aesthetic perfection of the primary living areas. For five years, Chadworth Prescott had rarely given these passageways a second thought; they were merely utility spaces. Tonight, however, they were his arteries of operation.
Accompanied by Arthur, Chadworth navigated the dim passageway leading toward the servants' quarters adjacent to the east wing. Every step he took felt heavy with an unfamiliar weight—guilt. He had built an empire worth billions, negotiated high-stakes treaties between international conglomerates, and outmaneuvered the most predatory hedge funds on Wall Street. Yet, within his own home, he had been profoundly, spectacularly blind.
Stopping before a heavy oak door marked Staff Access - Section 4, Arthur checked his tablet. "Rosamund’s private quarters are at the end of this hall, sir. According to the motion sensors, she just escorted the girls to their playroom in the east wing and returned here to prepare their evening meals."
Chadworth nodded silently. He swiped his master keycard, and the door unlocked with a faint pneumatic click.
The interior of the staff wing was modest, impeccably clean, and stripped of the opulence that defined the rest of the mansion. At the end of the narrow hallway, a thin strip of light shone beneath a wooden door. Chadworth stepped forward, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way it hadn't in decades. He reached out and knocked gently.
The door opened almost instantly. Rosamund stood in the doorway, wearing her simple navy blue domestic uniform. Her apron was slightly rumpled, and her hair, usually tied back in a immaculate bun, had a few stray strands loose around her face. When her eyes fell upon Chadworth standing in the narrow hallway, her breath hitched, and her face went completely pale.
"Mr... Mr. Prescott?" she whispered, her eyes darting past him toward the hallway as if expecting Sabina to materialize from the shadows. "You... you were supposed to be on a flight to Toronto. Is there an emergency? Did something happen to your plane?"
"The plane never left the tarmac, Rosamund," Chadworth said, his voice low, measured, and stripped of his usual corporate authority.
Rosamund stared at him, her clever mind visibly working through the implications. She looked at Arthur, who stood at high alert behind Chadworth, then back at the billionaire. A subtle shift occurred in her posture. The submissive, head-down deference she maintained in the main halls dissolved, replaced by a guarded, sharp intelligence.
"You know," she said quietly. It was not a question.
"I know," Chadworth replied. "I sat in the security bunker for the last two hours. I watched the living room, Rosamund. I heard every word."
A long, heavy breath escaped Rosamund’s lips. She stepped back from the door frame, opening it wider. "You had better come inside, sir. If Miss Sabina’s personal security guard sees you in this corridor, the element of surprise is lost."
Chadworth stepped into the small room. It was tiny—barely large enough for a single bed, a narrow desk, and a small wardrobe. Yet, on the desk sat a collection of neatly organized notebooks, a laptop, and several framed photographs of two young girls: her younger sister, Clara, and a smaller photo of Gemma and Lorelai smiling candidly in the estate garden, taken from a distance.
Chadworth looked at the photograph of his daughters. They were laughing genuinely in that picture—a laughter he realized he hadn't heard in the main house for months.
"How long?" Chadworth asked, turning to face her. "How long has Sabina been treating my daughters like that?"
Rosamund closed the door quietly, leaning her back against it. Her hands were steady, but her eyes carried a deep, profound exhaustion. "About six months, Mr. Prescott. It started small. A sharp word here, a cold look there. She began isolating them from the rest of the staff. She fired the previous nanny, Mrs. Gable, three months ago because Mrs. Gable threatened to report her behavior to you."
Chadworth’s brow furrowed. "Mrs. Gable told me she retired due to arthritis."
"Sabina drafted the resignation letter herself and paid Mrs. Gable a small severance under the condition she sign a non-disclosure agreement," Rosamund explained coldly. "Sabina told her that if she tried to contact you, she would use your legal team to sue her for breach of confidentiality and bankrupt her family. Mrs. Gable was terrified."
Chadworth felt a cold rage knotting in his stomach. "And why didn't you come to me, Rosamund? You’ve worked in this house for three years. You had direct access to my study."
Rosamund let out a bitter, soft laugh. "With all due respect, Mr. Prescott, look at the reality of the situation. Sabina was your fiancée. She slept in your master suite. She walked arm-in-arm with you at galas. She systematically fed you subtle lies about my character for five months. Every time I tried to speak up, she anticipated it. She staged the disappearance of her emerald bracelet in my locker two months ago—I only avoided being arrested because I happened to find it tucked beneath my mattress before she called the police and threw it into the furnace."
Chadworth flinched. He remembered that night. Sabina had casually mentioned losing her bracelet, adding with practiced indifference, "Oh, it doesn't matter, darling. Rosamund was cleaning the master suite today, but I'm sure she just misplaced it. We shouldn't accuse the poor girl." He had thought Sabina was being merciful. In reality, she was orchestrating a narrative, building a case so that if Rosamund ever blew the whistle, her words would be dismissed as the desperate retaliation of a caught thief.
"She used my sister's scholarship against me," Rosamund continued, her voice trembling slightly for the first time. "She let me know that if I stepped out of line, your foundation would quietly revoke Clara’s medical tuition. I couldn't risk my sister's future, Mr. Prescott. So I did the only thing I could do: I stayed. I took the brunt of her temper when I could. I made sure the girls were fed, comfort them when she locked them in their rooms, and tried to cushion the blow of her cruelty."
Chadworth looked at the young woman standing before him. For years, he had seen her as a background figure—a quiet, efficient domestic worker who moved like a shadow through his life. He had spent millions on high-end security systems, bodyguards, and elite tutors, yet the only real protection his daughters had possessed against an emotional predator was a twenty-four-year-old housekeeper earning forty thousand dollars a year.
Slowly, the billionaire bowed his head.
"I am sorry, Rosamund," Chadworth said, his voice thick with a humility he had never expressed to anyone in his adult life. "I brought a viper into this home. I failed my daughters, and I allowed you to carry a burden that was entirely my responsibility."
Rosamund looked stunned by the gesture. She blinked, her posture softening slightly. "You were blinded by what you thought was love, Mr. Prescott. Predators like Sabina are experts at finding wealthy, grieving men who are too busy to notice the subtle damage being done."
The mention of grieving hit Chadworth hard. His wife—the girls' mother—had passed away four years ago. Sabina had swept into his life eighteen months later, presenting herself as a warm, nurturing presence who wanted nothing more than to help heal his broken home.
"She isn't just abusing my children," Chadworth said, his tone hardening as he brought the conversation back to tactical reality. "I caught her on speakerphone an hour ago. She’s working with someone named Julian. They are actively attempting to siphon assets from my offshore accounts and steal my primary biometric keys."
Rosamund’s eyes narrowed sharp as a razor. "Julian... Julian Vance?"
Chadworth froze. "You know that name?"
"I don't know him personally, but I've seen his name on documents Sabina leaves in her vanity drawer," Rosamund said quickly. She walked over to her desk, pulled open a hidden lockbox beneath her laptop, and extracted a small, black USB flash drive. "I haven't been entirely passive, Mr. Prescott. When I realized she was systematic with her cruelty, I realized she was too calculated for this to be simple malice. She’s a professional."
She handed the drive to Chadworth.
"What is this?" he asked.
"Photographs of documents she received via private courier over the last six weeks," Rosamund explained. "Bank routing information, structural diagrams of your corporate servers in Zurich, and personal background files on your board members. Whenever she left her suite for her spa appointments, I used a high-resolution camera to photograph whatever she left unsecured in her desk. I didn't know how to use it without her destroying me, but I knew that eventually, I would need proof of who she really was."
Arthur took the drive, plugging it into his handheld diagnostic tablet. Within seconds, lines of encrypted financial ledgers and scanned documents began streaming across the screen.
"My God, sir," Arthur breathed, his eyes widening. "This isn't just corporate espionage. Vance is the managing director of Blackwood Holdings—the hedge fund trying to execute the short-squeeze on your tech subsidiary next month. Sabina isn't just a gold-digger; she’s an insider-threat operative planted by your primary financial rival."
Chadworth stared at the data scrolling across the tablet screen. The entire picture was now illuminated with brutal, crystalline clarity. Sabina’s entrance into his life hadn't been a chance encounter at an art gallery. It had been a planned, corporate infiltration designed to strip him of his wealth, dismantle his emotional foundation, and compromise his primary business assets from the inside out.
He looked back at Rosamund. "You took an enormous risk gathering this."
"I took a risk to survive," Rosamund replied simply. "And to protect Gemma and Lorelai. They are good children, Mr. Prescott. They miss their father. The real father... not the corporate titan who is always leaving for Toronto."
The words cut deep, but Chadworth did not flinch. He deserved the strike.
"They will have their father back," Chadworth vowed. "Starting tonight. But Sabina and Julian Vance are going to learn what happens when they try to destroy the Prescott family."
He turned to Arthur. "Is the perimeter secure?"
"Yes, sir. My team has silent coverage on all exits. No one leaves or enters without my express authorization."
"Good," Chadworth said. "Rosamund, I need you to continue playing your role for another twelve hours. Can you do that?"
May you like
Rosamund straightened her shoulders, her expression unreadable once more. "I’ve been playing a role for six months, Mr. Prescott. Twelve more hours is nothing."
"Tomorrow morning, Sabina believes I am arriving in Canada," Chadworth said, a cold smile touching his lips. "Instead, she is going to witness the grand finale of her own execution."
