Chapter 3 - Shadows in the East Wing
Midnight descended upon the Moretti estate like a heavy velvet blanket. The rain had stopped, leaving the night air crisp and smelling of wet pine and distant city asphalt.
Gabriel did not go to bed. Instead, he walked the silent corridors of the mansion, his footsteps silent on the thick Persian rugs. His routine inspections usually took him to the perimeter security gates or the underground server room, but tonight, his feet carried him toward the east wing—the private quarters where the children and their nanny slept.
The hallway was dimly lit by low wall sconces. As he approached the nursery, he noticed a sliver of light coming from beneath Emma's door, which was situated right next to the boys' shared bedroom.
He paused, listening.
No sound of crying. No whispers of distress. Just the low, rhythmic murmur of a voice reading aloud.
Gabriel stepped closer, his hand hovering near the brass doorknob. He didn't want to intrude, but an inexplicable pull drew him forward. He pushed the door open an inch—just enough to see inside.
Emma was sitting in a comfortable armchair by the window, an old, leather-bound notebook open in her lap. The room was cozy, lit only by a small glowing star projector on the ceiling that cast soft constellations across the walls.
Leo, Lucas, and Liam were fast asleep in their small beds, their breathing deep and peaceful.
Emma wasn't reading a fairy tale. She was reading from the handwritten pages of the notebook, her voice soft, melodic, and filled with a poignant sorrow that seemed to echo through the empty room.
"Today, the garden smelled of wet earth," Emma read softly. "Isabella would have loved this rain. She always said the hydrangeas bloomed best after a spring storm..."
Gabriel’s breath hitched in his throat.
That was Isabella’s handwriting.
That was the personal journal his late wife had kept during her final months—a journal Gabriel had searched for high and low after her tragic passing, believing it had been lost or accidentally discarded during the initial grief-stricken cleanup of the estate.
How did Emma have it?
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More importantly, how did she know the exact cadence of Isabella’s private thoughts?
Gabriel pushed the door open wider, the wood creaking softly against the floorboards. Emma snapped the notebook shut, her head whipping around. When she saw Gabriel standing in the doorway, the color drained entirely from her face, leaving her pale and trembling.
