Chapter 19 Mystery Woman
Elsie
The study was exactly what I expected: dark mahogany, old leather, and a suffocating atmosphere of work.
Caleb was seated behind a massive, antique desk, bathed in the blue-white glow of his laptop screen. Stacks of financial papers formed precise, towers around him.
He didn't look up. "Thanks, Elsie. Just set it down on the corner of the desk." His voice was automatic, aloof, entirely focused on the screen. He hadn't registered my presence, let alone the tension I’d just passed through.
I set the tray down carefully, the clink of the porcelain loud in the quiet room. The rejection stung. I was nothing more than a delivery service, a ghost they paid to exist quietly. But I needed an excuse to stay.
"Is the desk a bespoke piece, sir?" I asked, making my voice polite. "The carving is very unique."
He flicked his eyes up for a half-second, then immediately back to his screen. "It is. Designed by Sinclair. Now, if that's all, I have a deadline."
I didn't move. I couldn’t just leave. I needed to think of something that would make me be in there a little longer.
"Oh, I doubt that, sir."
He finally looked up, his brow furrowed in a sharp line of annoyance. His initial cold dismissal had been perfect; now I was disrupting it.
"Is there a problem with the coffee?" he asked, his voice low and serious.
I leaned against the massive desk, tilting my head. I let my eyes sweep his frame, the crisp shirt, the powerful shoulders, the hands that were all over my body under the rain.
"No problem with the coffee," I said, my voice dropping to a warm purr. "Just a problem with the service. I went through the trouble of making this for you, sir. Don't you think I deserve a better tip than a quick dismissal?"
His eyes narrowed further. "I am busy, Elsie. You are confusing professional service with something else. Return to your duties."
"Am I?" I stepped closer. "But you're a complex man, Mr. Lancaster. You rescue staff from a storm, and then you try to pretend you didn't. You drive me home in a Porsche and then treat me like an empty coffee cup. It's confusing for a girl like me."
I let my gaze linger on his mouth. "Unless, of course, you only like to touch staff when there's no one looking?"
A dark flush crept up his neck, proving I'd hit my target. He stood up sharply, his chair scraping back on the polished floor. He was rigid, fighting the immediate heat I was creating.
"That is entirely inappropriate," he stated, his voice a tight, dangerous whisper. "You will leave now."
I ignored him and started looking around, taking in the heavy sculptures and the antique maps. I needed a better angle. I needed something I could report back to Jacob later. Anything. Even if it makes no sense.
My gaze swept the room until it landed on a small, polished credenza tucked between two tall bookshelves. Tucked behind a heavy leather bookend, there was a framed photograph. It wasn't formal or official like the other portraits in the house. It was a snapshot.
The woman in the photo had a striking, timeless beauty. She was clearly older than the boys, but her face held such intense, unforgettable sorrow. Her blond hair was styled elegantly in a severe chignon, and she wore a piece of distinctive, sparkling diamond jewelry around her throat.
I took a slow step closer, mesmerized. Who was this? Why was she hidden?
Before I could stop myself, I reached out a finger toward the edge of the silver frame, drawn by the woman’s intense gaze.
“Don't touch that."
The command was a whip crack, low and sharp. Caleb’s entire body language shattered the aloof businessman facade. He slammed the laptop shut with a sickening thud, and he stood up, his tall frame suddenly looming over the desk, his hands planted flat on the mahogany surface.
His voice was a raw, low warning. "Don't touch that. Never touch that."
I snatched my hand back, stunned. This was not the kind man who had wrapped his arms around me in the rain. This was not the gentle man whose kiss felt like a soft lie. This was a Lancaster, filled with a rage that seemed to be bubbling up from his very core. His eyes were wide and dark, staring down at me with an intensity that made my stomach churn.
I knew instantly that the picture meant something to him. Something painful he didn’t want to speak or share. He was different from the man who kissed me; he was consumed by a private torment.
"—I'm sorry, sir," I stammered.
His breath was ragged. He stared down at me with rage-filled eyes, almost as though he was controlling himself from smashing my head against the wall.
The thought flashed into my mind, chilling me to the core: This is what they are when the guard is down. Jacob's anger is external; Caleb's is internal, and it is much, much worse.
"Now, Elsie. Leave." His voice was barely a whisper, but it carried absolute, final authority. "Get out."
I backed away slowly, clutching the empty space where the silver tray had been. The door clicked shut behind me, leaving the scene vibrating with the shock of his anger and the secret of the photograph.
I hurried down the hall, my heart hammering against my ribs. I hadn't found any files, but I had found a deeper secret.
As I reached the main staircase, I saw something that pulled my mind instantly away from Caleb's pain and back to Aiden's fear.
I slipped into the warm, bustling environment of the kitchen, trying to look busy. Mrs. Chavez was stirring a huge pot, the scent of herbs filling the air.
I started helping her, chopping vegetables for the salad, trying to seem normal, but my mind was spinning with the image of the woman in the photo.
"Mrs. Chavez," I began, trying to make my voice casual, professional. "I was just wondering... in the study, there's a picture of a woman. She's so striking. Do Mr. Lancaster and the boys have a mother? I haven't seen any other pictures of Mrs. Lancaster."
Mrs. Chavez froze instantly. The heavy wooden spoon in her hand clattered against the side of the pot. Her eyes, usually so kind, were wide with fear, and her face went pale.
"Don't ever say that name in this house again!" she whispered fiercely, leaning close so only I could hear. Her voice was thin, sharp, and motivated by absolute terror. "You hear me, girl? Don't ever speak of her! Focus on your work. Some things are best left alone!"
She immediately turned back to her cooking, her shoulders stiff with tension, refusing to look at me again.
A woman whose name shattered the polite veneer of the house. A woman who was either dead, gone, or worse, a source of Malcolm’s deepest shame.
I was curious and thought to dig deeper into who she was and how she’s connected to the Lancasters.