Chapter 3 - Inside the Forbidden Room
The air inside Zara’s bedroom was thick with the scent of dried lavender and old paper. Heavy velvet drapes blocked out the Manhattan skyline, plunging the spacious room into shadows cut only by the pale blue glow of a nightlight shaped like a crescent moon.
Zara was curled into a tight ball at the very center of a massive four-poster bed. Her face was buried deep within a floral pillowcase, her small shoulders shaking violently with every silent, agonizing sob.
When the door clicked shut behind me, she froze.
Slowly, terrifyingly slowly, she uncurled her body and sat up. Her gray eyes were wide, red-rimmed, and filled with a terror that made my stomach churn. She didn't look angry that I had broken her sanctuary; she looked like a hunted animal bracing for a blow.
"You... you came in," she whispered, her voice trembling so badly she could barely form the words. "Grandpa... Daddy said... nobody is allowed. They'll fire you. They always fire them."
I didn't rush toward her. I didn't try to pull her into a comforting embrace that she wasn't ready for. Instead, I slowly slid down the wall beside the door, letting my body hit the floor until I was sitting cross-legged on the plush white rug, several feet away from the edge of her bed.
"They might fire me," I said softly, keeping my voice low and steady, matching the rhythm of the room's shadows. "That's a real possibility. But I'm not leaving right now."
Zara stared at me, wiping her damp cheek with the back of her small hand. "Why aren't you yelling? The last lady... she yelled at me to shut up because Mr. Kretti was working downstairs and couldn't be disturbed."
"I don't yell at people for crying, Zara," I replied gently. "Crying isn't a crime. It's just heavy weather inside your chest, and sometimes it has to rain."
A strange, fleeting expression crossed the little girl's face—something that looked like confusion fighting against a desperate, starving need to be heard. She clutched a small, worn object in her left hand, holding it so tightly her knuckles were stark white.
"My daddy owns everything," Zara whispered, her gaze dropping to her lap. "He builds skyscrapers. He buys hotels. He has men with guns guarding the gates. But he couldn't stop the truck from hitting mommy's car. And he can't stop the nightmares."
"Power doesn't fix everything, sweetie," I said, leaning my head back against the wall. "Sometimes, all the money in Manhattan can't buy back a single minute."
Zara looked up sharply at those words. For the first time since I had stepped foot into the Kretti mansion, I saw a crack in the armor of silence that her father had built around her. She looked less like a prisoner of a mafia boss and more like an eight-year-old child drowning in a sea of grief.
Suddenly, her eyes drifted down to my left wrist, where the wide silver bracelet sat over my old scar.
Her breath hitched. She stared at the pattern engraved on the metal—a small, intricate etching of intertwined willow branches.
"Where did you get that?" Zara asked, her voice dropping to a breathless whisper.
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I looked down at my wrist, my heart skipping a beat. "I’ve had it for a long time, Zara. It was given to me by someone who taught me how to survive storms."
Before Zara could respond, a sharp, heavy knock echoed from the outer hallway, followed by the cold, unmistakable sound of Monique’s voice hissing through the wood: "Hazel! Open this door immediately! Mr. Kretti’s car has just entered the gates. If he finds you in there, God help us all."
