Chapter 8 - SHADOWS AND SILK
Ethan waited until he heard the faint sound of the playroom door clicking shut on the second floor.
He didn't make a sound as he walked across the white marble floor, his heavy leather boots gliding over the polished tile with alarming stealth. He moved past the kitchen island, past the half-eaten birthday cake, and stepped directly into the dark, oak-paneled corridor where Patricia had been standing.
The hallway was cool and quiet. The scent of expensive French perfume—sandalwood and white jasmine—hung faintly in the air, confirming her presence.
Ethan followed the scent down the long corridor toward the estate's private library. The heavy double mahogany doors were slightly ajar, a sliver of yellow light spilling out onto the dark rug.
Ethan pushed the door open without knocking.
Patricia Hale was standing by the high bay window, holding a crystal glass of iced water. She was the picture of effortless southern elegance: her blonde hair perfectly coiffed, her cream silk blouse unwrinkled, her tailored trousers sitting flawlessly over high heels. She looked like she belonged in a high-society magazine, completely removed from the gritty, bloody world Ethan occupied.
She turned around as he entered, a smooth, practiced smile instantly appearing on her refined face.
"Ethan!" Patricia exclaimed, her voice light and welcoming. "I didn't hear your truck pull in. I thought you were in San Antonio until tomorrow."
Ethan closed the heavy mahogany door behind him with a soft, definitive CLICK. He didn't smile. He didn't offer a greeting. He stood six-foot-three in his bare, tattooed chest and open leather vest, blocking the only exit in the room.
"Why are you telling my daughters that Clara is leaving?" Ethan asked flatly. His voice was dangerously quiet.
Patricia’s smile flickered for a fraction of a second before regaining its composure. She took a slow sip of her water, setting the crystal glass down on a nearby mahogany side table.
"Oh, darling," Patricia sighed softly, stepping toward him with an air of dismissive sympathy. "They’re five years old. They misinterpret everything. I was simply discussing the necessity of hiring a professional, certified nanny agency with proper background credentials. Clara is a sweet girl, Ethan, but she’s... unsophisticated. She’s an amateur. She doesn't have the qualifications to raise Whitaker children."
"She knows what color nightlight Sophie uses," Ethan said, his voice dropping an octave. "She knows how Avery likes her cake cut. Do your certified agencies know that?"
Patricia chuckled, a soft, patronizing sound. "Ethan, please. You’re letting emotional sentiment cloud your judgment. You’ve been gone for weeks. I am trying to maintain order in this house while you run around with your... club."
May you like
Ethan took two slow, heavy steps forward. His presence filled the library, his massive frame casting a long, dark shadow over Patricia.
"Don't talk about my club, Patricia," Ethan warned, his dark eyes fixed on hers. "And don't talk to my daughters about who belongs in this house."
