Chapter 1 – THE NAVY COAT AND THE MISSING BRACELET

The heavy silence of the dining room hung in the air as Adrian turned and walked toward the grand staircase.

I followed closely behind him, my heart hammering against my ribs. The engagement dinner downstairs had shattered in a matter of minutes. Sloane Hart, the woman Adrian was supposed to marry, had lied about her mother’s death. And worse, Adrian’s estranged sister, Francesca, was somewhere in this house.

We reached the second floor. The hallway was dimly lit by crystal sconces.

Adrian didn’t hesitate. He pushed open the heavy oak doors to the upstairs sitting room.

The room was completely empty.

The fireplace was still crackling. The cup of chamomile tea I had brought earlier sat on the mahogany coffee table. But Francesca was gone.

“Check the adjoining bathroom,” Adrian ordered, his voice tight.

I hurried over and opened the door. “No one’s here, sir.”

Adrian stared at the empty room. The betrayal was written plainly across his face. Sloane had told him Francesca hated him. But Mrs. Keene had just revealed the truth: Sloane was keeping them apart to hide a massive secret.

“Where did she go?” Adrian muttered, running a hand through his dark hair.

I looked around the room, trying to remember exactly how it looked when I left it.

“Mr. Bellucci,” I said softly.

He turned.

I pointed to the velvet armchair near the window. Draped over the back of it was Francesca’s heavy navy wool coat.

“She was wearing that when she arrived,” I explained. “It’s freezing outside. She wouldn’t leave without it.”

Adrian walked over and picked up the coat. He checked the pockets. His fingers brushed against something hard, and he pulled it out.

It was a custom, silver-plated matchbook.

Engraved on the front was a snarling wolf—the crest of the Rossi family. They were the most vicious rival syndicate in Connecticut.

“What is my sister doing with a Rossi matchbook?” Adrian whispered.

Before I could answer, hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway. Sloane appeared in the doorway, her emerald silk gown rustling. Her face was flushed, and she had clearly been crying.

“Adrian, please listen to me,” Sloane begged, stepping into the room. “Francesca left. She came up here, started screaming at me, and stormed out the back stairs. She’s unstable!”

Adrian held up the navy coat. “She stormed out into a snowstorm without her winter coat?”

Sloane swallowed hard. “She was furious. You know how she gets.”

“And her luggage?” Adrian asked coldly.

I looked toward the corner of the room. “Mr. Bellucci… her suitcase is gone.”

Sloane’s eyes flashed with a momentary panic, but she quickly covered it. “She took it with her, obviously.”

But I knew she was lying.

Because on the Persian rug, half-hidden beneath the edge of the coffee table, was a thick, silver medical alert bracelet.

I knelt down and picked it up. I knew what it was because I had seen Francesca wear it the few times she visited last year. She had a severe heart arrhythmia.

“Miss Hart,” I said carefully. “Francesca never takes this off. Her doctors told her it’s a matter of life and death.”

Sloane glared at me, her mask slipping. “Keep your mouth shut, Grace. You’re just a maid.”

“She’s the only one telling the truth tonight,” Adrian snapped. He pulled out his phone and hit a speed dial. “Marcus. I need a full lockdown. Check the perimeter cameras now.”

A moment later, his head of security answered.

“Boss,” Marcus’s voice crackled through the speaker. “The perimeter cameras on the north wing were manually disabled ten minutes ago.”

Adrian’s eyes darkened. “By who?”

“The logs show they were turned off using an internal staff passcode,” Marcus said. “Grace Miller’s passcode.”

Sloane immediately pointed a shaking finger at me. “She helped her! She helped Francesca steal something from the safe and run!”

I stepped backward, terrified. “I didn’t! I was in the dining room the whole time!”

Adrian looked at me, then at the silver bracelet in my hand. He knew I was innocent. But he also knew someone was trying to frame me to buy time.

He looked down at the velvet armchair where Francesca’s coat had been sitting.

He slowly pulled the decorative cushion aside.

Soaking into the beige upholstery was a massive, wet stain of dark red blood.

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