Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Westchester Estate
The heavy iron gates of the Caruso estate in Scarsdale swung open automatically at 2:15 a.m., recognizing the license plate of Dominic's black Maybach. But the house itself was dead.
There were no lights burning in the double-height foyer. The floor-to-ceiling Christmas tree in the corner—decorated with hand-blown crystal ornaments Nora had collected from their trip to Prague—stood dark and jagged against the moonlight pouring through the palladian windows.
Dominic strode into the kitchen, his tuxedo jacket over his arm, his shirt collar unbuttoned.
“Nora?”
Only the hum of the Sub-Zero refrigerator answered him.
He walked up the grand staircase, his footsteps echoing through the cavernous hallway where portraits of his father and grandfather stared down with cold, calculating eyes. He pushed open the door to the master suite.
Empty.
The king-size bed was made, untouched. On the marble vanity, her silver hairbrush sat beside a small crystal dish containing three bobby pins and her wedding band—the plain platinum band she had worn since that small stone church in Connecticut.
He stared at the ring. It looked small, almost defenseless, resting beside a tube of lipstick.
He crossed the hall to Eli’s room.
The door was cracked open. Inside, a small nightlight shaped like a dinosaur cast a warm, green glow across the carpet. Six-year-old Eli was curled on his side, clutching a stuffed T-Rex, breathing softly in his sleep.
Sitting in the rocking chair beside the crib was Grandma Teresa—Dominic's mother-in-law by technicality, though Teresa had never forgiven Dominic for turning her daughter into a trophy wife wrapped in corporate silk.
Teresa didn't look up when Dominic entered. She was knitting a gray woolen scarf under the dim light of a floor lamp, her needles clicking with a rhythmic, hostile precision.
“Where is she?” Dominic asked, his voice low.
Teresa finally raised her head. Her eyes, faded with age but sharper than a surgical scalpel, locked onto his face. She didn't miss the red swelling across his knuckles—the trace of impact from where his ring had caught Nora's cheekbone.
“She’s gone, Dominic,” Teresa said softly.
“She can't be gone. Her car is in the garage. Her clothes—”
“Her clothes are material things you bought to dress up your parlor,” Teresa interrupted, her needles stopping mid-stitch. “Nora packed her portfolio. She packed the red sketchpad she kept under the floorboards in the closet—the one you told her was 'too avant-garde for the suburban market' before you handed her designs over to your marketing team at Caruso Design.”
Dominic went completely still. “What are you talking about?”
“You think I didn't see the winter bridal catalog?” Teresa stood up, her small frame rigid with decades of suppressed fury. She walked over to the crib, smoothed the edge of Eli’s blanket, and turned back to face him. “You think because you bought her a house with three security gates and a driver that she forgot how to draw? She spent four years drafting those lace patterns while you were out building your little empire. And tonight, when Vanessa Moretti walked into the ballroom wearing a modified version of Nora’s spring line... did you ask Nora how it got there?”
Dominic felt the air leave his lungs.
He remembered the meeting three weeks ago. His lead designer, Julian Vance, had dropped a portfolio on his desk with a smug smile. “Found these in the downtown archive folders, Boss. Perfect fit for the high-society launch. Clean lines, organic draping. The clients are going to love it.”
Dominic hadn't checked the provenance. He had signed off on the manufacturing order before dinner.
May you like
“She didn't tell me,” Dominic whispered.
“Because you stopped listening the day you convinced her that staying home was safer than competing with you,” Teresa said, walking past him toward the door. She paused on the threshold, her gaze cold as ice. “You wanted a queen for your boardroom, Dominic. But you forgot that queens know how to play chess.”
