Chapter 5 - The Meeting on the Floor
The door to the private stairwell clicked open with a soft, metallic scrape.
Ethan led Lily down the dimly lit corridor where the emergency exit sign cast a faint red glow over the walls. True to the child's description, the overhead fluorescent bulb flickered erratically before dying out entirely, plunging a small alcove near the service door into deep shadow.
“Here?” Ethan asked softly, looking down at Lily.
Lily pointed a small finger toward a narrow wooden access panel set low into the wall—a utility crawlspace used for old electrical wiring predating the building's major renovation a decade ago.
“She left her box there,” Lily said simply.
Ethan crouched down, ignoring the dust and the stain it might leave on his expensive trousers. He examined the panel. It wasn't locked with a modern digital keypad; it was secured by an old-fashioned brass latch, rusted with age. He slid his fingers against the metal and turned it. The door creaked open, revealing a dark, dusty cavity no larger than a shoebox.
Inside sat a single, faded yellow envelope.
Ethan’s breath hitched. His hand reached into the dark recess, his fingers brushing against thick, heavy stationery—paper of a brand and quality he hadn’t seen since his university days.
He pulled it out into the dim red glow of the hallway.
Across the front of the envelope, written in sharp, familiar handwriting that made twenty years melt away in a single second, were three words:
To My Brother.
It was from Clara.
Ethan stared at the ink, his chest tightening as a wave of dizziness washed over him. This letter was dated November 14, eleven years ago—the exact week Clara had supposedly vanished from Chicago without a trace, leaving behind only a curt text message saying she wanted nothing more to do with him or his empire.
“Ethan?”
The sharp, breathless voice echoed down the corridor, shattering the heavy silence.
Ethan spun around, still clutching the yellow envelope. Standing twenty feet away, frozen in absolute terror with her hands clutched over her chest, was a young woman in a simple gray housekeeping uniform. Her dark hair was slightly disheveled, her face pale with panic, and her brown eyes—the exact same shade as the little girl holding Mr. Buttons—were wide with unmitigated dread.
May you like
“Mr. Harrington,” Maria choked out, dropping instantly to her knees beside Lily, pulling the child protectively against her side. “I am so, so sorry. Please. Please don't fire me. She wandered off, I turned my back for one second, I swear to God she didn't mean to—you can take it out of my paycheck, just please don't take my job...”
Maria pressed her forehead against the carpet, bracing herself for the explosion of rage that never came.
