Chapter 2 – The Secret Protector

I stared at the silver rosary in my palm. The crucifix was worn smooth from years of prayer. I remembered my mother holding this exact rosary when I was a child, right before she disappeared from my life forever.

“My mother?” I choked out. “My mother died of cancer when I was nine.”

“No, sweetheart,” Eleanor said gently. “Your mother worked at the clinic. She realized Thomas Arden was keeping Margaret hostage under the guise of medical care. She smuggled Margaret out.”

Celeste let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “This is absurd! Dominic, are you really going to let a maid and a senile woman concoct a fairy tale to ruin our engagement?”

Dominic stepped between me and Celeste. His broad shoulders completely blocked her from my view. “Anna,” he said, his voice steadying the chaos in the room. “Is that your mother’s rosary?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “It has a small scratch on the back of the cross. I did it with a pebble when I was five.” I turned it over. The scratch was exactly where I remembered.

Dominic turned back to Celeste. “Get out of my study.”

“Dominic—”

“Get out, Celeste. Go back to the party. Smile for the guests. If you cause a scene, I will personally throw you out the front door.”

Celeste’s face twisted in fury. She glared at me with absolute venom before spinning on her heel and slamming the doors behind her.

Dominic knelt beside Eleanor’s chair. “If Anna’s mother helped mine escape… where did they go? Why didn’t my mother ever come to me?”

Eleanor pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket. It was a child’s drawing, colored with crayons. It showed a tall woman with dark hair holding hands with a little boy. But behind them, hiding behind a drawn tree, was another figure. A man with a scar across his face.

“She wanted to come back to you,” Eleanor explained. “But Margaret discovered the truth about the car crash that killed your father. It wasn’t an accident, Dominic. And the man who orchestrated it was hunting her.”

Dominic’s jaw clenched. “Who?”

“I don’t know his name,” Eleanor said. “But Margaret drew this based on a memory from the night of the crash.”

Dominic took the drawing. I leaned in to look. As my eyes fell on the crayon rendering of the man’s face, my blood turned to ice.

The scar. The distinct, jagged line across the cheek.

“I know him,” I whispered, stepping back in horror. “That’s my father’s physical therapist.”

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