Chapter 1 - The Accusation
Three more feet.
That was all I needed to reach the fireplace.
But the enormous gold-framed portrait kept pulling toward my injured shoulder, and every time I tried to straighten my back, pain spread across my collarbone.
Twenty-eight guests were watching me struggle beneath the chandeliers of Luca Moretti's Chicago mansion.
And the woman sitting beside him knew exactly why I was hurt.
“Careful, Claire. That portrait cost more than you make in a year.”
Vanessa Bellini didn't bother lowering her voice.
I tightened my grip on the wheeled stand.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Then stop dragging it across my floor.”
One of the wheels caught the edge of the rug.
I reached out instinctively. Pain shot through my left shoulder. The enormous frame tilted toward the marble fireplace.
Before I could catch it, Luca Moretti stood and grabbed the other side.
“Leave it.”
His voice was quiet, but every conversation near him stopped. And he wasn't looking at the portrait; he was watching the way I kept my left arm pressed against my waist.
My name is Claire Morgan. I was twenty-nine, had worked at the Moretti estate for eleven months, and had spent the last four hours pretending my shoulder wasn't injured. Normally, moving a portrait like that would have required two people. Tonight, Vanessa had insisted I do it alone.
My rent was due Friday. My car needed new brakes. And I had seventy-nine dollars left until payday. So I had put on my black housekeeping uniform and returned to work.
Finish dinner. Collect my paycheck. Go home. Forget what happened in the carriage house at 3:30. Especially that last part.
Luca carefully steadied the portrait. Thirty-nine. Black suit. White shirt. The kind of man who noticed when people suddenly became interested in their dinner rather than answering a simple question.
Beside him sat Vanessa. Red silk gown. Diamond earrings. A beautiful smile that hadn't left her face since the first guests arrived.
“Claire.”
My stomach tightened. “Yes, Mr. Moretti?”
“Why aren't you using your left arm?”
“It's a little sore, sir.”
He looked at the way I was standing. “What happened?”
Before I could answer, Vanessa spoke. “She hurt her shoulder in the carriage house this afternoon. Apparently, she tried to move some furniture by herself.”
My hands went cold.
Luca slowly turned toward his fiancée. “The carriage house?”
Vanessa continued eating. “Yes, darling. She's been complaining about it ever since.”
I stared at the floor, because I hadn't complained to anyone. And Vanessa had specifically ordered me never to mention what I'd seen inside that building.
Luca looked back at me. “Did you hurt yourself moving furniture?”
I could feel Vanessa watching. “Yes, sir.”
“What were you moving?”
“A cabinet.”
Vanessa immediately added, “She was helping the delivery men clear some old furniture.”
Luca glanced toward her. “What delivery men?”
Vanessa hesitated. “The men who brought the portrait.”
Luca looked at the enormous frame, then back at his fiancée. “The portrait was delivered yesterday.”
For a moment, Vanessa said nothing. Then she smiled. “They came back for the packing materials.”
Luca looked at me. “Did they?”
My mouth went dry. I nodded.
He studied my face for several seconds. Then quietly asked me to sit down.
I tried to lower myself into the nearest chair. Pain caught beneath my collarbone. I couldn't stop myself from gasping.
Luca's expression changed. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“No, sir.”
Vanessa sighed. “For heaven's sake, Luca. She pulled a muscle. Do we really need to discuss it in front of everyone?”
He ignored her. “Claire, what did you fall against?”
I swallowed. “The cabinet.”
Vanessa reached for her glass. Luca noticed. Then he looked at me again.
“Did somebody push you?”
My eyes immediately lifted toward Vanessa. I regretted it before I could look away, because Luca followed my gaze and saw the warning in her expression.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then he asked quietly, “Are you afraid of losing your job?”
My eyes burned. “Yes.”
“You won't.”
Vanessa leaned back. “She's making this much more dramatic than it was.”
Luca turned toward her. “You were there?”
Her smile tightened. “I never said that.”
“No.” He watched her for another second. “You didn't.”
Then he looked back at me. “Claire, you're finished for tonight.”
Panic rose inside me. “Please, sir. I need the hours.”
“You'll be paid for the entire shift.”
“I can finish.”
“No.” He called the head housekeeper. “Mrs. Carter, help Claire upstairs. Have Dr. Harris examine her shoulder.”
Vanessa gave an irritated sigh. “She doesn't need a doctor.”
Luca looked directly at her. “How do you know?”
Her smile disappeared.
I carefully stood. But before I reached the doorway, Luca spoke again.
“Claire.”
I stopped.
“Was Vanessa alone when you hurt your shoulder?”
My stomach dropped. I looked toward her without meaning to. She was smiling again, but her eyes weren't.
“No, sir.”
Luca studied my face. “Who else was there?”
I couldn't answer.
Vanessa set down her glass. “Darling, the guests are waiting.”
Luca watched me for another second, then nodded. “Go get your shoulder examined.”
I left.
And for the next thirty minutes, Luca Moretti behaved as though nothing unusual had happened. He finished dinner, discussed the wedding, and listened patiently while Vanessa described the flowers she'd chosen for Saturday's ceremony. By dessert, she was smiling again, thinking he'd accepted my explanation.
But at 9:52, Luca quietly left the dining room.
He walked across the courtyard and stopped outside the old carriage house. The building had belonged to his grandfather. For years, it had housed the family's antique furniture and several vintage cars. Now its heavy wooden doors were secured with a new padlock.
Luca frowned. He hadn't authorized anyone to change the locks.
He called his head of security. “Daniel. Who has the key to the carriage house?”
“The estate manager, sir.”
“Anyone else?”
A pause. “Miss Bellini requested a copy yesterday.”
Luca's expression hardened. “Bring me the master key.”
Three minutes later, Daniel arrived. The lock opened. Luca stepped inside.
Several pieces of furniture stood beneath white dust sheets. A delivery trolley had been left beside the doorway. And near the far wall, a large wooden shipping crate stood partially covered by a canvas tarp.
Luca approached it. His expression changed when he noticed the shipping label. The destination was an antiques dealer in Philadelphia. And the item listed underneath wasn't furniture.
It was a painting.
Luca slowly pulled back the tarp. Inside the crate was a large oil portrait of his parents on their wedding day. His mother's white dress. His father's dark suit. The little gold necklace his mother had worn for forty years.
Luca recognized every detail. The portrait had hung above the dining-room fireplace since he was a child. The enormous engagement portrait Claire had struggled to move was intended to replace it.
He stared at the crate, then called Daniel over. “Why is my parents' portrait being shipped to Philadelphia?”
Daniel examined the label. His expression changed. “Boss, this isn't a storage shipment.”
Luca looked at him. “What is it?”
“It's a sale.”
For several seconds, Luca didn't move. Then he noticed something caught between the crate and the wall. A torn piece of black fabric—the same material as Claire's housekeeping uniform.
He looked toward the carriage-house doors. “Daniel, get me the delivery records from this afternoon.”
Ten minutes later, they were sitting in Luca's study. The records showed that two men had arrived at 3:18. Vanessa had personally authorized their entry. At 3:41, they'd loaded the portrait into the wooden crate.
But when Luca examined the courtyard footage, he noticed something else.
Claire had entered the carriage house carrying a cleaning bucket, her left arm moving normally. Six minutes later, she appeared at the doorway. Vanessa was standing behind her. Claire was holding one end of the portrait while the delivery men prepared the crate.
Then Vanessa grabbed her shoulder and pulled her away from the painting. Claire stumbled against the heavy cabinet beside the door, immediately reaching for her left shoulder.
Luca stopped the recording. He looked at Daniel. “Cancel the shipment.”
“Yes, boss.”
“And bring Claire to my study.”
Twenty minutes later, I sat across from Luca with my injured arm resting in a sling. He turned the computer toward me.
“Claire, did Vanessa hurt your shoulder because you tried to stop her from selling my parents' portrait?”
My eyes filled. For several seconds, I couldn't speak. Then I nodded.
Luca leaned back. “Why didn't you tell me?”
I looked toward the closed door. “She said you'd already agreed to sell it.”
He stared at me. “And you didn't believe her?”
I shook my head. “Your mother loved that painting. Mrs. Carter told me you'd never even allowed it to be moved for cleaning.”
Luca was silent.
Then I reached into my apron pocket and removed a small folded piece of paper. “Mr. Moretti, there was something else inside the crate.”
He took it carefully. An old photograph. His mother stood in the garden beside a woman holding a baby. Luca recognized his mother's face immediately, but he didn't recognize the woman or the child.
He turned the photograph over. There was a date—thirty-one years earlier. And beneath it, a name written in his mother's handwriting.
Luca stared at the picture, then slowly looked up at me. “Where did you find this?”
“It fell from behind the painting when the delivery men took it off the wall.”
His expression changed. “Did Vanessa see it?”
I nodded. “She tried to take it from me.”
Luca studied the photograph again. The woman standing beside his mother was wearing a nurse's uniform, and the baby in her arms had a small birthmark beneath his left eye.
Luca knew that birthmark. He'd seen it every morning in the mirror since childhood.
His voice dropped. “Claire, did Vanessa recognize the woman in this photograph?”
My eyes filled again. “Yes, sir.”
May you like
He went completely still. “What did she say?”
I swallowed. “She said that if you ever found out who that woman was, you'd never marry her.”
