Chapter 4 - The Interrogation of the Archivist
For three agonizing seconds, the only sound in the hidden archive was the steady, rhythmic ticking of the silver pocket watch on the drafting table.
Dominic did not shout. He did not slam the heavy bookcase shut. He simply stood there, blocking the exit, his tall frame cutting off the light from the corridor until the shadows in the room felt claustrophobic.
“Well?” Dominic prompted softly, taking a slow, deliberate step into the room. “Are you looking for classified shipping manifests, or did you simply take a wrong turn while dusting the baseboards?”
My mouth felt as dry as parchment. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Yet, beneath the paralyzing terror, a stubborn surge of defiance flared up inside me. I refused to cower like a guilty child.
“I was dusting the lower shelves, sir,” I said, lifting my chin defensively, though my voice trembled slightly. “Your bookshelf has a faulty latch mechanism. It swung open automatically when my cloth brushed the spine. You really ought to have maintenance look at the counterweights; it’s a severe structural hazard.”
Dominic stopped dead in his tracks. A slow, incredulous expression crossed his face—the look of a man who was entirely unaccustomed to subordinates criticizing his estate’s hardware when caught red-handed trespassing in a forbidden intelligence room.
“A structural hazard,” he repeated flatly.
“Yes, Mr. Vale. If an inspector came through here, you’d probably fail fire code compliance on automated secret passages alone.”
Marcus Cole appeared silently in the doorway behind his boss, pressing two fingers against the bridge of his nose in a universal gesture of profound exhaustion, clearly wondering how long before I managed to get us all killed.
Dominic looked from me down to the open journal on his drafting table, then back up to my face. The dangerous edge in his dark eyes didn't vanish, but it shifted into something sharper, more analytical.
“You weren't reading the shipping manifests,” Dominic noted, his gaze tracking my posture. “You were looking at the margin notes.”
I swallowed hard, deciding that honesty—or at least a very carefully curated version of it—was my only remaining survival strategy.
“Your handwriting is completely different there,” I admitted quietly, gesturing toward the desk. “In the main office ledgers, every letter is straight, controlled, and precise. But in that journal... the ink is smeared. The lines are jagged. You were angry when you wrote that.”
The air in the room grew instantly colder. The casual banter evaporated, replaced by the crushing weight of reality. Dominic Vale did not like people analyzing his handwriting. He certainly did not tolerate staff commenting on his emotional state.
Marcus instinctively shifted his weight, his hand hovering near his jacket interior.
Dominic held up a single finger, silencing his enforcer without looking back. He walked slowly toward the drafting table, closing the distance between us until I could smell the faint, expensive scent of sandalwood, cedar, and crisp autumn rain clinging to his overcoat.
He looked down at the open page, then back at me, his dark gaze piercing straight through my defenses.
“You notice too much, Miss Vance,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into a low, hypnotic register. “In this house, noticing things is a dangerous hobby. People who ask questions about my ledgers usually find themselves packing their bags before sunrise—or worse.”
“I didn't ask a question,” I replied, my voice holding steady despite the proximity of a man who commanded fear across the entire eastern seaboard. “I made an observation. There's a difference.”
A heavy, lingering silence stretched between us. For a heartbeat, I thought I had pushed him too far—that my infuriating habit of speaking my mind had finally exhausted his legendary patience.
Instead, Dominic reached out.
My breath hitched as his large, warm fingers brushed past my shoulder. I flinched slightly, expecting him to grab my arm and throw me out of the room.
May you like
Instead, he simply reached past me, picked up the silver pocket watch from the desk, and slipped it neatly into his waistcoat pocket.
“Clean the floors in the west wing, Miss Vance,” Dominic instructed quietly, turning his back to me as he walked toward the hidden exit. “And tell maintenance to fix the latch on that bookshelf. I wouldn't want you hurting yourself next time you go exploring.”
