Chapter 9 - The Confrontation
Rose’s mind raced frantically as Mrs. Gable marched down the corridor toward her.
The heavy blue notebook felt like a slab of burning lead pressed against her ribs beneath her apron.
Every second that ticked by brought the house security cameras back online.
“Mrs. Gable,” Rose said, forcing her voice into a tremulous, submissive register.
“I was instructed to replace the velvet drapes in the guest rooms down this corridor.”
Mrs. Gable stopped three feet away, her sharp eyes traveling slowly from Rose’s pale face down to the heavy utility cart.
“Mr. Richard Kane gave explicit instructions that no domestic staff was to enter the west wing while he was in the city.”
“I didn't know, ma’am,” Rose stammered, clutching the handle of her cart.
“The morning assignment board had my name listed for second-floor window care.”
Mrs. Gable took a step closer, her gaze dropping to Rose’s apron.
The rectangular outline of the heavy leather notebook was faintly visible beneath the starched white fabric.
Mrs. Gable’s eyes narrowed into slits of cold recognition.
“What do you have in your apron pocket, Bennett?”
The hallway seemed to shrink into a suffocating tunnel.
Rose took a half-step back, her fingers brushing against the fabric concealing her father’s book.
“It’s just spare cleaning cloths, ma’am.”
“Empty your pockets,” Mrs. Gable commanded, her voice rising in harsh authority.
“Right now.”
Rose did not move.
She knew that if Mrs. Gable laid hands on that notebook, it would be delivered directly to Richard Kane the moment he returned.
Everything—Alexander’s plan, Clara’s safety, the truth about her father’s murder—would be destroyed in a single second.
“I asked you a question, girl!” Mrs. Gable snapped, reaching out her claw-like hand to grab Rose’s apron.
Before Mrs. Gable’s fingers could touch the fabric, a tall shadow fell over both of them.
“Is there an issue here, Mrs. Gable?”
The deep, resonant baritone of Alexander Kane rolled through the hallway like thunder.
Mrs. Gable’s hand froze in midair.
She spun around, her face flushing crimson with sudden embarrassment and fear.
Alexander stood at the entrance of the west wing corridor.
He was dressed in a charcoal vest and rolled-up white sleeves, his expression dark and forbidding.
“Mr. Alexander,” Mrs. Gable stammered, pulling her hand back defensively.
“I found Bennett loitering outside Mr. Richard’s private study.”
“She knows the west wing is restricted during business hours.”
Alexander walked slowly down the corridor, his heavy leather shoes striking the floor with rhythmic, deliberate strikes.
He stopped beside Rose, his shoulder brushing against hers.
The subtle physical contact gave Rose an immediate, grounding surge of strength.
“I sent her here, Mrs. Gable,” Alexander said coldly.
Mrs. Gable blinked in stunned disbelief.
“You... you sent her?”
“I asked Rose to retrieve my father’s personal estate catalogues from the west gallery storage,” Alexander lied effortlessly.
His stormy gray eyes locked onto the elderly housekeeper with terrifying intensity.
“Do you make a habit of interrogating my personal staff, Mrs. Gable?”
“No, sir! Of course not, sir,” Mrs. Gable stammered, her arrogant composure crumbling into complete subservience.
“I was merely enforcing Mr. Richard’s security directives—”
“Richard is a guest in this house,” Alexander interrupted, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper.
“I am the sole master of Kane Manor.”
“If you ever raise your voice at Rose Bennett again, you will find your personal belongings deposited on the county highway within fifteen minutes.”
Mrs. Gable turned as pale as fresh linen.
She lowered her head, curtsying so low her skirt brushed the floorboards.
“I apologize, Mr. Alexander.”
“It will not happen again.”
“Return to the basement kitchens,” Alexander ordered without looking at her.
Mrs. Gable turned and scurried down the hallway like a frightened rodent, vanishing down the service stairs.
Alexander waited until the heavy fire door clicked shut below.
He turned to Rose, his gray eyes searching hers with fierce urgency.
“Did you get it?” he murmured.
Rose reached into her apron pocket and pulled the dark blue leather notebook out an inch, showing him the faded gold initials T. B.
A rare, brilliant flash of triumph lit up Alexander’s dark features.
“Good girl,” he breathed, his voice rich and low.
He grabbed her uninjured hand, his fingers intertwining with hers with startling warmth.
May you like
“Come with me to the north tower.”
“We have twelve hours to break this code before the board arrives.”
