Chapter 2 - The Confession in the Kitchen
Annie stood frozen in the hallway, the dim evening light catching the silver strands prematurely woven into her dark hair. Justin blinked sleepily against her shoulder, his tiny fingers loosening their death grip on her gray apron. Jordan hovered close to her skirt, using his brother's foot as a shield against the looming presence of his father.
Kevin cleared his throat, the sound harsh in the quiet corridor. He stood up from the floor, his knees popping slightly—a reminder of hours spent motionless against the wall.
"I didn't mean to fall asleep, Mr. Morrison," Annie said, her voice barely louder than a whisper, devoid of the practiced corporate polish or defensive jitteriness of the five women who had preceded her. "They cried for three hours straight after lunch. They were exhausted. I sat down on the edge of the mattress to rub their backs, and... well, the quiet just caught up with me."
"They haven't slept like that in fourteen months," Kevin said, his voice dangerously flat, not out of anger, but out of sheer disbelief. "The last woman I hired—the one with the Harvard credentials—told me they had severe neurological sleep disorders. She said they required strict behavioral conditioning and white noise machines at eighty decibels."
Annie shifted Justin to her other hip, her movements fluid and practiced. "They don't need white noise, sir. They need silence that doesn't feel empty. And a bed that still smells like their mother."
Kevin flinched as if struck. He looked past Annie into the bedroom. The master suite. Lauren’s sanctuary. He had locked it the day after the funeral, unable to bear the scent of her lavender lotion mingling with the cold air of abandonment. He had left everything untouched—her jewelry box on the vanity, the silk robe draped over the armchair, the pile of unread architecture magazines on the nightstand.
"How did you get in there?" Kevin asked, his tone sharpening. "That door has a biometric lock. Only my thumbprint and the estate manager's master code can open it."
"The key was sitting on the console table behind the vase of dead lilies," Annie replied calmly, meeting his gaze without flinching. "It had a little brass tag that said Lauren. It didn't look like a secret. It looked like something someone left behind because they were afraid to look at it."
Kevin’s jaw tightened. He wanted to fire her on the spot. He wanted to strip her of her apron, hand her a severance check, and throw her out into the rainy dusk. That was what a rational, protective billionaire CEO did when a stranger breached his most private sanctum.
Instead, he looked down at Jordan. The five-year-old boy was staring up at his father with eyes that looked entirely too old for his face—eyes identical to Lauren’s. There was no terror in them tonight. Just a quiet, guarded curiosity.
"Make them dinner," Kevin said stiffly, turning on his heel. "And keep them out of that room tomorrow."
May you like
"Yes, Mr. Morrison," Annie murmured.
As Kevin walked down the grand mahogany staircase toward his subterranean study, his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He sat behind his massive glass desk, staring at the triple monitors displaying global stock tickers for Morrison Dynamics. But the numbers blurred. All he could see was the way Justin’s fist had twisted into the white fabric of Annie’s apron, and the terrifying realization that for the first time since October 14th, he hadn't been the one keeping his sons alive.
