Chapter 2 – The Millionaire’s Cruel Game
1038 Words
The morning sun filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting fractured rainbows across the grand dining hall.
Linda sat quietly at the long table, her spine straight, hands folded. She wasn't sure if it was fear or habit that kept her so composed.
Alex sat at the head, as before.
This time, he was already waiting when she entered. A porcelain teacup rested untouched before him, steam curling above the surface. Marco stood nearby, tablet in hand, expression unreadable.
“Eat," Alex said, without looking up.
A maid placed a plate before her—eggs, fruit, toast. Silver cutlery gleamed like small weapons. Linda picked up her fork cautiously.
The silence between them stretched, taut as a tripwire.
Then Marco broke it. “The Corval cartel crossed into Pier 42 last night. Two trucks seized. Five bodies left behind. No tags."
Alex sipped his espresso. “Letisha?"
“Unconfirmed. Could be the Veracruz outfit testing us. Or the Feds."
“And the warehouse?"
“Clean. But there's chatter."
Alex set the cup down. “Eliminate chatter."
Linda blinked. “Is this... a business meeting?"
Alex turned his gaze on her. “Would you prefer I pretend I'm an accountant?"
“I'd prefer honesty."
Marco arched a brow. “Bold."
“She's forgetful," Alex replied coolly. “Not stupid."
“I'm still here, you know," Linda muttered.
Alex stood, crossing to the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Marco, give us a moment."
Marco hesitated, then nodded and exited with silent precision.
Alex didn't turn around. “You dropped your glass yesterday."
Linda stiffened. “I didn't mean to."
“No," he said flatly. “But you still broke it."
She looked at the table. Her water glass from yesterday was gone. In its place, another crystal flute gleamed under the sunlight.
Alex picked it up.
Paused.
Then, with a sudden snap of muscle, crushed it in his hand.
Glass splintered and spilled like diamonds across the tablecloth. Blood ran from his palm in thin crimson threads.
Linda gasped. “You're bleeding—!"
“It's just a scratch." He wiped his hand with a cloth, his tone unfazed. “A lesson."
“What lesson? That you can bleed and not care?"
“That everything breaks eventually."
She stood. “Including people?"
He met her gaze, sharp and unyielding. “Especially people."
He stepped closer.
“I have a task for you," he said.
“A task?"
He handed her a gold key. “My mother's vault. Top floor. Inventory her jewelry. Make a list of anything missing."
Linda stared at him. “Why would I do that?"
“Because I told you to."
She clenched her jaw. “So I'm a prisoner and a maid."
He tilted his head. “You wanted honesty. Here it is."
—
The vault smelled of rosewood and time.
Velvet boxes filled rows of drawers—sapphires, emeralds, pearls in serpentine necklaces. Everything was exquisite. Everything was dusted in grief.
Linda sat at the desk, cataloging.
Halfway through a drawer of brooches, she found something strange tucked beneath a velvet tray: a folded piece of paper.
No—not paper.
A child's drawing.
Crayon on rough sketchpad. A boy with wide blue eyes standing beneath a sign: *San Vincenzo Orphanage*.
She stared.
The lines were shaky. The sun was yellow. But the emotion… the loneliness... was unmistakable.
Before she could turn it over, the door slammed.
Alex stood there, chest heaving.
“Put it down."
She froze. “It was in the drawer—"
“I said put it down."
Slowly, she obeyed.
He crossed the room, snatched the sketch, crumpled it in his fist.
“What is this?" she asked, voice shaking.
“None of your concern."
“Why did it upset you?"
His nostrils flared. “Don't pretend you care."
“I do care." She stepped toward him. “I don't know who I was, but I know I'm not heartless."
He stared at her. “And what if you were?"
She faltered.
He leaned in. “Some things are better forgotten, Linda."
He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
—
Later that evening, Linda sat on the edge of her bed, sketching from memory.
She drew the boy from the picture. The orphanage. The sad smile.
She didn't know why, but it tugged at her.
She flipped the page and began drawing the mansion—the guard posts, the sensor grids, the hallways.
The beginnings of a plan.
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
Marco.
“You're wanted in the ballroom."
She followed in silence, the halls cold beneath her bare feet.
The ballroom was dimly lit. Oil paintings loomed on the walls—men in suits, eyes masked, faces half-shadowed. Patriarchs of something ancient and violent.
Alex stood before one, glass of bourbon in hand.
“Recognize any of them?" he asked.
“No."
He pointed to a portrait of a teenage boy standing beside a coffin, a woman weeping behind him.
“That's me."
She moved closer.
He didn't stop her.
His younger self looked haunted. His fists were clenched. His tie too loose. His eyes—
They were the same.
Blazing. Angry. Alone.
“I remember this funeral," he said. “I remember what they said about my father."
“What did they say?"
“That he deserved it."
She said nothing.
He turned to her slowly. “Don't go into the east wing again."
“So you know I did."
“I know everything that happens in this house."
“Why is that room off-limits?"
“Because it's full of ghosts."
He drained the glass. “Your guard will resume post at your door. No more exploring."
“But I—"
He stepped close. His voice dropped.
“I said no more."
—
That night, Linda sat in the dark, locket in hand.
She still couldn't open it.
But when she held it close, a memory flickered.
Not a sight.
A sound.
A lullaby.
Sung in Italian.
A woman's voice, soft and trembling. Humming above waves. A boy whispering her name.
Linda.
Linda.
Her breath caught.
She didn't know what it meant.
But it was hers.
And she wasn't going to let anyone take it from her again.
- Writer
