Chapter 3 - The Intruder in the Master Suite
The master suite on the third floor felt massive, empty, and suffocating.
I paced back and forth across the plush Persian rug, my arms wrapped tightly around my stomach as if I could physically shield the tiny life growing inside me from the violent currents swirling through our lives downstairs. Outside, the storm was worsening, the wind howling against the reinforced glass windows, bringing sheets of sleet that battered the historic brickwork of the estate.
Noah had stationed two guards outside the double doors of the suite. They were professionals—silent, heavily armed, and utterly terrifying. When I asked for a glass of water, one of them had fetched it immediately, but his eyes never left the hallway, his hand resting casually near the holster concealed beneath his jacket.
Muffled thuds echoed up through the floorboards from the lower level. Not gunshots—not yet—but the heavy, resonant sound of raised voices, slamming doors, and furniture scraping against hardwood.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I couldn't just sit here like a helpless prisoner while my husband negotiated with Chicago’s most dangerous men.
I walked over to the heavy mahogany door and turned the brass handle.
The door clicked open an inch.
“Mrs. Cross,” the guard on the left said instantly, his voice a low, gravelly baritone without him even turning his head to look at me. “Mr. Cross gave strict instructions. You are to remain inside the suite.”
“I need fresh air,” I lied smoothly, pulling my coat tighter around my shoulders. “The bedroom is stuffy. I’m going out onto the private balcony for five minutes.”
The guard turned his head then, his dark, calculating eyes scanning my face for deception. “The weather is hazardous, ma’am. Freezing rain and high winds.”
“I’m standing right outside the French doors under the overhang,” I snapped back, channeling a fraction of Dorian’s cold authority. “If you try to stop me from stepping onto my own balcony, I will make sure Mr. Cross hears about your lack of basic manners the second he finishes with Mr. Moretti.”
The guard hesitated, weighed the risk of angering Dorian’s pregnant wife against the risk of disobeying a direct order, and finally stepped aside just enough to let me slide past.
The balcony was a freezing, chaotic wasteland. The wind whipped my hair across my face, and the icy mist stung my cheeks. But the private balcony of the master suite shared a architectural design with the adjacent guest wing—a wing that featured a spiral iron service staircase leading directly down to the rear courtyard near the conservatory.
It was reckless. It was insane.
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And it was the only way I was going to find out what Dorian was hiding from me.
Carefully, keeping my footsteps light against the slick iron grating, I crept along the exterior ledge toward the guest wing stairs.
