Chapter 2 - The Locked Door
The commercial kitchen of the Moretti estate was an enormous, stainless-steel cavern filled with industrial ranges, walk-in refrigeration units, and copper cookware hanging from heavy ceiling racks. At three o'clock in the afternoon, between lunch service and dinner prep, it was completely empty.
I stood near the stainless-steel prep island, holding my broken glasses in one hand and pressing a dirty apron sleeve against my bleeding lip.
On the other side of the double doors, I could hear muffled commotion. Heavy footsteps were hurrying down the service corridor. I recognized the deep, urgent voice of Marcus Reed, Gabriel’s head of personal security, calling out orders. The estate staff was realizing that the man who controlled half the commercial shipping lines in North America had just locked himself in a service pantry with an accused housekeeper.
Gabriel didn't pay any attention to the noise outside. He walked over to the wall-mounted first-aid cabinet near the service sink, opened the metal door, and pulled out a box of sterile gauze, a bottle of antiseptic solution, and an instant cold pack.
He set them down on the stainless-steel counter right beside me.
"I can take care of it, Mr. Moretti," I said, stepping back half a pace. My back hit the edge of the central island. "Really. I just need to wash my face and get back to the laundry room."
Gabriel didn't move away. He snapped the instant cold pack between his palms, activation chemicals sizzling inside the plastic, and wrapped it in a clean linen towel.
"Sit down, Sophie," he said quietly.
It was the first time he had ever spoken my name. In the four months I had worked at the estate, he had passed me in the hallways a dozen times. He had always been surrounded by lawyers, bodyguards, or shipping executives. I had always pressed myself against the wall, head bowed, waiting for the powerful man to pass. He had never acknowledged my presence beyond a brief, silent nod.
I pulled out one of the high stainless-steel prep stools and sat down. My knees were shaking so hard the legs of the stool rattled against the floor tiles.
Gabriel picked up a piece of sterile gauze, saturated it with antiseptic, and stepped closer. He was so tall that even sitting down, I had to look up to see his face. Up close, I could see the fine silver threads running through his thick dark hair, and the tiny, sharp white scar that cut horizontally through his left eyebrow.
He reached out. His fingers were large, heavy, and calloused, but when he pressed the wet gauze against the corner of my cut lip, his touch was impossibly light.
I flinched at the sharp sting of the alcohol.
"Sorry," he murmured, his voice low and raspy. He held the gauze steady until the bleeding slowed, then handed me the towel-wrapped cold pack. "Hold this against your cheek."
I pressed the pack to my face. The icy temperature numbed the throbbing heat beneath my skin almost instantly.
"I didn't steal Mrs. Bellamy's bracelet, Mr. Moretti," I said, looking at the silver button on his suit coat rather than his eyes. "I know how this looks. I know I'm the new girl, and I know people like Evelyn think someone like me..." My voice cracked slightly, and I hated myself for it. I swallowed hard and forced the words out. "...think someone my size, with my background, must be desperate enough to steal."
Gabriel stopped cleaning his hands with a fresh towel. His posture went completely rigid.
"What does your size have to do with anything?" he asked.
I gave a bitter, half-smile that hurt my face. "Everything, Mr. Moretti. When you're a big woman in a place like this, people assume you're lazy, desperate, or completely lacking in self-control. It makes it very easy to pin things on you, because people are already primed to believe the worst."
Gabriel stared at me for three long seconds. His dark gray eyes were terrifyingly still.
"The only thing I see when I look at you, Sophie," Gabriel said softly, "is a woman who works sixteen hours a day, never complains, and keeps this house running while everyone else takes the credit."
My throat tightened so fast I couldn't breathe. I looked down at the floor, pressing the cold pack harder against my cheek to hide the sudden, burning prickle of tears in my eyes.
Outside the kitchen door, someone knocked three times in a rapid, rhythmic pattern.
"Boss?" Marcus Reed’s voice came through the heavy oak. "Police are at the main gate. The Cross woman called them before you came downstairs."
Gabriel didn't look at the door. He kept his eyes on me.
"Marcus," Gabriel said, his voice easily penetrating the wood.
"Yes, sir?"
"Lock the outer gates. Nobody enters. Nobody leaves."
A brief pause from the hallway. "Sir, the officers—"
"Tell them to wait at the gate house," Gabriel commanded smoothly. "Pull the last eight hours of continuous footage from every camera on the property. Dressing rooms, hallways, service stairs, garage corridor, and the employee break room. Have the IT team bring the raw server files to my study in ten minutes."
"Understood, boss."
"And Marcus?"
"Sir?"
"If Evelyn Cross attempts to get into her vehicle or move any personal belongings out of the main house, put her in the guardhouse basement and hold her there until I come down."
"Consider it done, boss."
The footsteps in the corridor hurried away.
I pulled the ice pack down from my face, staring at Gabriel in disbelief. "You're locking down the entire estate? For a missing bracelet?"
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Gabriel walked over to the brass deadbolt, unlocked the door, and pulled it open. The bright, chaotic light of the service hallway flooded into the quiet kitchen.
"No, Sophie," Gabriel said, standing in the doorway and looking back at me over his broad shoulder. "Not for a bracelet. For the blood on your face."
