"My flight from Singapore landed shortly after five in the morning, two full days before anyone expected me home.

The sound hung in the cool air of the expansive hallway, a muffled rhythm of distress that seemed entirely out of place in the silent, sleeping house. My heart gave an involuntary lurch, the exhaustion of the long flight evaporating instantly under a sudden spike of adrenaline.

"Claire?" I called out softly, keeping my voice low so as not to startle her if she was having a difficult morning with the pregnancy.

There was no verbal response, but the noise shifted—a sharp intake of breath followed by a hurried, frantic scuffling against the imported marble tiles of the grand foyer. Setting my overnight bag down by the pantry door, I stepped out of the kitchen and peered into the main corridor.

The heavy mahogany front doors remained firmly closed and bolted from the inside. Yet standing near the base of the sweeping staircase was a figure I did not immediately recognize in the dim dawn light.

It was a young woman, her back turned slightly toward me as she gripped the polished banister with white knuckles. She wore a simple, oversized knit sweater and dark trousers, her hair pulled back into a loose, messy bun that was coming undone. In her other hand, she clutched a small leather travel pouch—one that I recognized instantly. It belonged to my mother.

"Who's there?" I demanded, my tone sharper than intended as I stepped fully into the foyer.

The woman gasped, freezing mid-motion. As she slowly turned around, the morning light catching her pale face, I saw that her eyes were red-rimmed and filled with a raw, defensive terror. It wasn't Rosa, our housekeeper, nor was it any of the part-time staff my mother employed. This was someone younger, perhaps in her early twenties, with a fragile build and an expression that screamed guilt.

"Mr. Vance," she whispered, her voice trembling so violently that the syllables blurred together. "You're... you're supposed to be in Singapore."

"I changed my flight," I replied, crossing my arms as a cold, analytical instinct took over. The protective warmth I had felt a few moments ago when bringing home pastries for Claire was rapidly being replaced by a heavy, suffocating unease. "Who are you, and what are you doing with my mother's travel bag?"

The young woman looked down at the leather pouch in her hands as if she had only just remembered she was holding it. Her lower lip quivered, and for a terrifying second, I thought she might collapse right there on the marble floor.

"I'm... I'm Elena," she stammered, taking a hesitant step backward toward the corridor leading to the east wing. "I work for... well, I help out with the household administration on a temporary basis. Mrs. Vance hired me to assist with the correspondence while her regular secretary is on leave."

I narrowed my eyes. My mother had never mentioned hiring an administrative assistant, let alone one who roamed the foyer at five in the morning carrying personal valuables. Furthermore, my mother's bedroom was up the stairs, in the opposite direction of where Elena was attempting to edge.

"Put the bag down, Elena," I said quietly, stepping forward to block her path to the east wing.