Chapter 2 - The North Lounge
The North Lounge was usually reserved for board members and heavy contributors. Tonight, it smelled faintly of leather, expensive cologne, and panic.
The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind them, sealing off the distant murmur of the gala. Victoria had stayed outside, her dignity bruised and her curiosity burning, but Daniel had waved off the security guards who tried to follow.
Only the three of them were inside: Daniel, Emma, and a tall, silver-haired man named Arthur Vance, who had hurried in behind them looking like a man who had just been told his bank was on fire.
“Daniel, what on earth is happening?” Arthur asked, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses. “The state senator is asking for you, and—.”
Daniel ignored him. He walked over to the velvet-upholstered table where a silver ice bucket sat, but he didn’t pour a drink. He braced both hands against the polished wood and looked at Emma, who stood near the door with her small white purse still clutched in her hands.
“Clara Bennett passed away three months ago,” Daniel said. It wasn’t a question.
Emma froze. “How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve been looking for her,” Daniel said. His voice was rougher now, stripped of its corporate polish. “For five years. Ever since my father died and we found the ledger.”
Arthur Vance stopped pacing. He looked from Daniel to Emma, his eyes widening as he took in her features—the shape of her jaw, the stubborn line of her mouth.
“Good lord,” Arthur murmured.
“What ledger?” Emma demanded, stepping away from the door. “What are you talking about? Who are you?”
“My name is Daniel Carter,” he said, straightening up. “And your mother wasn't just a worker at the St. Jude mills, Emma. Before the fire in ninety-nine—before the company was restructured—she was listed as a co-owner of the patent for the synthetic weave that made my family’s entire fortune.”
The room went dead silent.
Emma stared at him, her mind scrambling to catch up. “That’s impossible. My mother lived in a two-room apartment above a dry cleaner. She spent her last ten years working three jobs just to keep the electricity on. We didn’t even have health insurance.”
“Because she signed away her rights,” Daniel said softly. “Or rather, she was told she had to, in exchange for a settlement that never arrived.”
Arthur Vance stepped closer, looking uncomfortable. “Daniel, we don't know for certain that—.”
“Look at the dress, Arthur,” Daniel snapped, pointing down at the yellow thread. “Look at the stitching technique. Only one person in the entire district used that specific overcast pattern after the union strike. Clara taught my older sister how to do it before she left town.”
Emma felt the floor tilt slightly beneath her feet.
She thought of her mother’s metal tin in the back of the closet—the one filled with old receipts, faded photographs, and a single legal document with a red wax seal that her mother had always told her never to open.
“She told me it was garbage,” Emma whispered.
“What did you say?” Daniel asked.
“The box in her closet. She told me it was just old papers from a job she lost a long time ago.” Emma looked down at her hands, the reality crashing over her in slow, suffocating waves. “She never wanted to talk about the mills. Whenever I asked about her family, she just said they were gone.”
Daniel took a step toward her, his expression no longer cold or distant, but desperate.
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“They aren't gone, Emma,” he said. “And neither is the truth.”
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