Chapter 2 - THE FEVER IN THE COTTAGE
The silence in the shoe room felt heavy, dense with decades of hidden things that Adrien Romano had never bothered to look at. For the first time since he had built this fortress of marble and iron, he realized how little he actually knew about the people who kept it breathing. The staff lived in the converted stone cottages behind the greenhouse, invisible cogs in a machine of wealth and power.
Adrien knelt on the cold floor, the black polish smudged against the knees of his expensive trousers, and looked closer at the little girl. Her name was Lily, or at least that was what her mother called her when she whispered to her in the corridors. Her mother, Clara, had been part of the new roster of housekeeping staff hired six months ago during Adrien's extended stay in Europe.
"Take me to your mother," Adrien said, his voice stripped of the gravelly command he usually reserved for his lieutenants.
Lily blinked, her big dark eyes wide with a mixture of terror and lingering determination. She looked down at her stained hands, then at the shoe she had been desperately trying to finish. "The... the shoes aren't done yet, sir. If the shoes aren't shiny, the master will be angry."
"The master isn't angry," Adrien said, and even to his own ears, the words sounded foreign. He reached out, his large, calloused hand hovering for a second before he gently took the small, blackened rag from her fingers. "Show me where Clara is."
Lily hesitated, then nodded. She grabbed her battered teddy bear by its mismatched ear, clutching it like a shield, and scurried out of the room. Adrien followed her down the dimly lit back service corridors, away from the grand chandelier-lit wings of the main house and out through the heavy oak door that led to the stone courtyard.
The night air was sharp with the chill of late autumn. The path to the staff cottages was unpaved, winding past the dormant rose gardens where Adrien's mother used to spend her afternoons before the world turned cold and violent.
When they reached the second cottage, the door was unlocked. It was a simple, small space—a tiny kitchen, a single worn sofa, and a door leading to a back bedroom. From beneath that bedroom door, a faint, sickly yellow light spilled onto the floorboards.
"Mama?" Lily whispered, pushing the door open with her shoulder.
Adrien stepped in behind her, his large frame immediately making the modest room feel suffocatingly small. The air inside was thick, stagnant, and hot. On the narrow cot against the far wall lay Clara. Her face was flushed with a dangerous, mottled red, her breathing shallow and ragged. A damp, sour-smelling cloth lay crumpled on her forehead.
Adrien crossed the room in two strides. He placed the back of his hand against Clara's neck. Her skin burned like hot iron. She was delirious, muttering broken fragments of sentences about schedules, silver polish, and the strict rules of the Romano estate.
"How long?" Adrien demanded softly, turning back to look at Lily, who stood in the doorway, clutching her teddy bear so tight her knuckles were white.
"Two days," Lily whimpered, tears finally spilling over her lashes. "Mama fell down yesterday morning when she was making your breakfast tray. She tried to get up, but her legs didn't work good. She told me to stay in the corner and be quiet so nobody would find us and throw us out."
Adrien stared at the small child, then down at the woman who was slowly burning to death in a room just a hundred yards from his own bedroom. In his world, weakness was a liability, and sickness was often a precursor to betrayal. But looking at Clara—who had pushed herself past the breaking point just to feed her child and keep a roof over her head under his roof—a cold, sharp fury rose in his chest. Not at them. At his own house. At the system of ruthless efficiency he had engineered, which had nearly let a mother and child die of a preventable fever in his own backyard while his managers looked the other way to save on medical insurance costs.
"Marcus," Adrien muttered to himself, pulling out his encrypted satellite phone.
He dialed his personal physician, a man named Dr. Viktor Vance, who asked no questions and charged no fees for his absolute discretion.
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"Vance," Adrien said the moment the line connected. "Get your bag, your full kit, and a car. Be at the South Gate of the Romano estate in fifteen minutes. If the guards stop you, tell them I authorized it. Bring fever reducers, IV fluids, and whatever else you need for severe pneumonia. Move."
He hung up before Vance could reply. Then, he turned his attention back to the shivering little girl standing in the doorway.
