Chapter 4 - The Mask of Normalcy
The sun rose over the Long Island estate with a cold, pale glare that reflected off the slate patio.
By 7:00 a.m., Roman was sitting in his study. The fire in the hearth was burning low. In front of him sat an untouched cup of black coffee and a manila folder Wesley had couriered over at dawn: the complete police and medical report from November 14, 2019.
Mateo’s mother had been Elena Reyes, twenty-four years old. Claire had been nineteen at the time, working two retail jobs while attending night school. When the tragedy struck, Claire had dropped out of school, signed the custody papers, and taken on three jobs to fight the hospital’s mounting collection agencies.
A soft knock sounded at the study door.
Roman closed the folder smoothly, sliding it beneath the leather blotter on his desk. "Enter."
Claire stepped inside, carrying a brass tray with a fresh pot of French press coffee and a small plate of toast. She wore her standard dark trousers and gray button-down shirt. Her eyes were rimmed with faint violet bruises of exhaustion, but her hair was pulled back into a neat bun.
"Good morning, sir," she said softly, keeping her gaze directed at the floor three feet in front of his desk. "I brought fresh coffee. Would you like me to open the terrace curtains today?"
Roman watched her. Really watched her.
He saw the tension in her shoulders, the faint tremble in her right wrist as she poured the coffee, the worn-out soles of her black sneakers. She had been working here for eight months. In all that time, she had never complained, never taken a sick day, never asked for an advance, and never once looked into his eyes for more than two seconds.
"Claire," Roman said.
She froze mid-pour, carefully steadying the silver spout before looking up with that practiced, neutral expression. "Yes, Mr. Vance?"
"Sit down."
Her eyebrows twitched slightly in surprise. Housekeepers didn't sit in the leather wingback chairs reserved for Roman’s financial managers and criminal associates. "Sir, I have the upstairs linens to strip, and the library—"
"I asked you to sit." It wasn't an order barked in anger, but it carried the quiet, unyielding gravity of a man who didn't repeat himself.
Claire hesitated, then stepped around the mahogany desk and lowered herself onto the edge of the leather chair opposite him. She perched there like a bird ready to take flight at the first sound of thunder.
"Are you satisfied with your compensation here?" Roman asked, leaning back.
Claire blinked, visibly caught off-guard. A flicker of panic crossed her features. "I—yes, sir. You’ve been very generous. If there is a problem with my work, if I’ve overlooked something in the east wing—"
"Your work is impeccable," Roman cut in. "I’m asking because you look exhausted. You work long hours here, and yet you seem... stretched thin."
Claire swallowed hard. Her hands tightened into fists on her lap. "My personal life does not interfere with my duties, Mr. Vance. I ensure everything is done according to your standards."
"Personal expenses can become overwhelming," Roman continued carefully, testing every inch of thin ice beneath his boots. "I have resources, Claire. If you need a salary advance, or an emergency loan against future earnings, you only need to name the figure."
For a split second, Roman saw something raw flare in her dark brown eyes—a flash of pride so fierce it took his breath away.
"Thank you, sir," she said, her voice dropping into a quiet, chilling dignity. "But I don't accept charity. My family pays our own debts. I work for what I receive, and nothing more."
"Even when the debt isn't yours to pay?" Roman asked before he could stop himself.
May you like
Claire went dead silent. The study seemed to drop ten degrees. She stared at him, her gaze locking onto his eyes for the first time since she had walked into this house. A question flickered in her pupils—suspicion, fear, or perhaps the terrible dawn of recognition.
***
