Chapter 6 - THE BLOODLINE'S GHOST
Rowan did not answer Finley. He couldn't. The world outside the borders of the photographic paper seemed to cease existing.
Slowly, with meticulous care, Rowan turned the old photograph over in his hands to examine the back. Across the plain, white matte surface, a single line of text had been written in the exact same dark black fountain-pen ink, the letters crisp and fresh, as if penned only hours ago.
Rowan’s eyes tracked across the handwritten words.
His entire frame froze. The muscles in his neck locked tight; his breathing stopped entirely. The silence of the Grand Ballroom returned tenfold, heavy and suffocating, punctuated only by the soft crackle of the thirty birthday candles as wax dripped down the sides of the chocolate cake.
Finley watched his employer with growing alarm. He had seen Rowan shot, he had seen him survive the car bombing that took his legs, and he had seen him order the destruction of rival syndicates without blinking an eye. He had never seen Rowan Hale look terrified.
"Boss?" Finley repeated, his voice sharper this time, filled with urgent concern. "Talk to me. Is it a threat?"
Rowan slowly lowered the photograph, resting his hands flat on his lap over his knees. His gaze drifted away from the paper, lifting slowly from the dark chocolate cake, past the crooked white flower, and locking onto the heavy, closed oak doors at the far end of the ballroom—the doors where Piper and Maeve had disappeared moments ago.
Rowan swallowed hard, his throat tight, his gravelly voice barely reaching a audible whisper.
"Who is that little girl?" Rowan asked.
Finley blinked, caught completely unprepared by the question. He looked at the heavy oak doors, then back down at Rowan.
"The waitress's kid?" Finley asked, confused. "She said her name was Piper. Her mother is Maeve—she’s been on the hotel banquets crew for about six months. HR vetted her when we booked the floor. Nothing on her file. Just a single mother working shifts."
Rowan did not look at Finley. His eyes remained fixed on the distant doorway, his broad shoulders trembling with a deep, silent emotion that he was desperately trying to suppress. His hand tightened around the photograph again, pressing the white backing against his knee as if trying to physically absorb the reality of the ink written upon it.
"Look at her again, Finley," Rowan whispered, his voice cracking slightly at the edges. "Look at her file. Look at her birthdate."
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Finley stared at Rowan, the gravity of the situation finally beginning to dawn on him, though he did not yet understand the full scope of the secret held within Rowan's palm.
Behind them, at the head of the pristine, empty thirty-seat table, the thirty candles continued to burn down toward the dark ganache, casting long, dancing shadows across the golden walls of the Sterling Court Hotel.
