Chapter 4 - The Shared History
The kitchen of the Hancock Park estate smelled faintly of roasted coffee beans and old paper.
While Sophia had finally been coaxed back to bed with the promise of a reading session in the morning, Clara sat at the heavy oak dining table with a steaming mug of chamomile tea between her hands.
Matthew stood by the stove, pouring hot water into a ceramic pot with precise, measured movements.
"She talks about you, you know," Matthew said, his back to her.
"Sophia?" Clara looked up, watching the broad line of his shoulders beneath his crisp white shirt.
"Every Tuesday after tutoring," Matthew said, turning around and setting a small plate of shortbread cookies on the table before taking a seat opposite her.
"She tells me about the books you're reading. Jane Eyre. To Kill a Mockingbird. Stories about people who refuse to bend when the world expects them to break."
"Literature has a way of teaching things people refuse to listen to in real life," Clara said, taking a small sip of her tea.
"You speak as if you've had to learn those lessons firsthand."
"Everyone has a history, Mr. Sacco."
"Call me Matthew," he corrected quietly.
"Only if you stop talking about me like I'm a chess piece," Clara countered, her dark eyes flashing with a sudden, fierce defiance.
"Let's be clear about something, Clara. You were never a piece on the board."
Matthew leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.
"You were the reason I started paying attention to the board in the first place."
Clara's breath caught. She set her mug down with a soft click.
"What does that mean?"
Before Matthew could answer, a sharp, electronic chime echoed from the hallway.
It wasn't a telephone. It was a secure terminal alert.
Matthew's expression hardened instantly. He stood up and walked briskly down the hall into his study, leaving the door half-open.
Clara hesitated, then stood up, following him to the threshold.
Inside the study, multiple monitors cast a blue glow across the dark wood bookshelves.
On the central screen, a live security feed showed the front gates of the estate.
A sleek black SUV had pulled up to the wrought-iron bars.
Even through the graininess of the night-vision camera, Clara recognized the man stepping out from the driver's side.
It was Gavin Dunmore.
And he wasn't alone. Behind him stood two men in dark tactical jackets, holding official-looking municipal folders.
Matthew didn't look back at Clara, but his voice was ice-cold as he picked up an encrypted desk phone.
May you like
"Let them in, Marcus," Matthew said into the receiver. "Let's see what the venture capitalist has to say."
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