Chapter 214
[ 513 words ]
Chapter 214:
The tension in the room evaporated. Caroline sat back in her chair, her posture relaxing just a fraction. She had established a rhythm of banter that bypassed the General’s defenses. He was looking at her not as a threat, but as a fascinating anomaly.
Two floors down, in the massive, stainless-steel commercial kitchen of the estate, the atmosphere was entirely different.
The kitchen was brightly lit by fluorescent overheads. Agnes Petrenko, a young maid in a black-and-white uniform, stood by the industrial espresso machine, waiting for a shot to pull.
The swinging doors pushed open. Carson Finch walked in.
He carried the white cardboard box from the Georgetown bakery. He walked over to the massive white marble island in the center of the kitchen and set the box down.
“Agnes,” Finch said, his voice smooth and professional. “A guest has brought pastries. Please divide these among the night security detail and the remaining staff on duty.”
Agnes smiled, reaching for a knife. “Yes, Mr. Finch.”
Before Agnes could open the box, the kitchen doors violently slammed open.
Harper Romero stormed into the room.
She wore a floor-length, emerald-green silk robe. Her hair was a mess. She had been locked in her suite for days, stripped of her credit cards, and her blood sugar was crashing. She was in a state of perpetual, vibrating rage.
Harper marched toward the massive double-door refrigerator, intending to yell at a chef to make her a meal. But as she passed the marble island, her eyes locked onto the white cardboard box.
𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗱𝗲𝘃𝗶𝗰𝗲 𝗼𝗻 𝗴𝗮𝗹𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘀.𝗰𝗼𝗺
She recognized the gold foil logo instantly. It was her favorite late-night bakery. A box of those tarts cost fifty dollars — a trivial amount she used to spend daily, but now she couldn’t even afford a cup of coffee.
Harper stopped and reached out, aggressively pulling the box toward her.
“Who ordered these?” Harper snapped, not looking at Finch. “I want them.”
Finch stood perfectly still, his face carved from stone.
“Those were not ordered by the house, Miss Harper,” Finch replied coldly. “They are a gift, brought by Miss Caroline Thompson for the General. He instructed me to distribute them to the staff.”
The name hit Harper like a physical electric shock.
Her hand jerked back violently from the cardboard box, as if the paper had suddenly caught fire. The color drained completely from her face, leaving her skin a sickly, pale white.
“What did you say?” Harper whispered, her voice trembling. She spun around, her eyes wide and bloodshot, staring at Finch. “Why is that cheap, disgusting nurse in this house?”
Finch looked down his nose at her, not hiding his contempt.
“Miss Thompson is an invited guest of the General,” Finch stated, emphasizing the word invited. “She is currently in his private study. They are having a closed-door meeting.”
The words “private study” and “closed-door meeting” struck like a sledgehammer against Harper’s fragile, shattered ego.
She, a Romero by blood, was currently grounded like a child, her money stolen, forbidden from entering that study. And Caroline — a nobody, a peasant who scrubbed bedpans — was sitting upstairs in the seat of power, being treated as an equal.
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