Chapter 4 - Shadows in the Penthouse
The penthouse occupied the top three floors of a limestone tower overlooking Central Park. It was a palace of polished travertine, dark walnut, and expansive glass walls. Yet for all its luxury, Maya immediately noticed the crushing silence of the home. It felt like a museum, devoid of warmth or laughter.
Until tonight.
“Bath!” Nora cheered, bouncing on the king-sized bed in the guest suite.
Maya stood by the doorway, wearing an oversized cashmere sweater and sweatpants that Adrian’s housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, had provided. For the past two hours, Nora had refused to leave Maya’s side. She had eaten an entire bowl of warm chicken soup—something Mrs. Gable swore the child hadn't done in months—only because Maya had fed her spoonful by spoonful.
Adrian stood in the doorway, his tie undone, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up to his forearms. He watched the scene with a mix of awe and deep, unsettling pain.
“She usually fights the bath,” Adrian noted quietly, his voice low so as not to startle the child. “It takes two nannies and forty minutes of screaming just to wash her hair.”
Maya knelt beside the oversized soaking tub in the adjoining marble bathroom, testing the water with her wrist. “She’s afraid of slipping,” Maya said instinctively. “Babies who have sensory trauma hate the feeling of water running over their ears. You have to cradle the back of their head.”
Adrian leaned against the doorframe, watching Maya’s gentle, practiced movements. Nora happily splashed in the warm bubbles, giggling whenever Maya blew a sudsy bubble into the air.
*Giggling.*
Adrian had never heard Nora laugh. Not once.
When Elena had been alive, she had treated Nora like an expensive accessory. Nora was dressed in immaculate French designer clothes, posed for society magazine spreads, and then promptly handed off to a rotation of stern, emotionless Swiss nannies. Elena had never once sat on the bathroom floor to blow bubbles.
Adrian had tried his best, but running a global conglomerate while grieving an estranged wife and managing a mute child had left him isolated, exhausted, and blind to the darkness lurking in his own family.
“Miss Rowan,” Adrian said suddenly.
Maya looked up, wiping a stray bubble from her cheek. “Yes?”
“Tell me about your pregnancy.”
Maya’s eyes softened with distant, bittersweet memories. “I lived in a tiny studio apartment in Queens. I worked sixty hours a week at a diner until my eighth month. Every night, I would put headphones on my belly and play Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat major. I told her that no matter how poor we were, she would always know beauty.”
Adrian’s posture stiffened. His silver eyes dilated with profound shock.
“What did you say?” he whispered.
Maya frowned, confused. “Chopin. The Nocturne in E-flat.”
Adrian walked over to the built-in speaker system on the bathroom wall. He tapped the touchscreen twice.
The haunting, delicate piano notes of Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat major began to drift through the room.
Nora instantly stopped splashing. Her eyes widened, sparkling with pure delight. She threw her hands in the air and began humming the melody—pitch-perfect, exactly on beat.
“Mommy song!” Nora squealed, clapping her wet hands together. “Mommy song!”
Maya froze. Her breath hitched, and she clutched the rim of the bathtub until her knuckles turned snow-white.
Adrian stared at the little girl, then at Maya. The final fragments of doubt in his mind were disintegrating. Elena had hated classical music; she had banned it from the house, calling it depressing. Nora had never heard that song in this penthouse.
She had heard it in the womb.
Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the penthouse’s main foyer slammed open downstairs. The sharp, aggressive click of high heels echoed across the marble hallway, followed by the agitated voice of an aristocratic woman.
“Adrian! Where is he? What is the meaning of this circus at *L'Hiver*?!”
Adrian’s jaw hardened into steel.
“Stay here with Nora,” Adrian instructed Maya, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register. “Lock this door from the inside.”
“Who is that?” Maya asked, fear creeping back into her throat.
May you like
“Victoria Vance,” Adrian replied, his eyes flashing with dark fury. “My late wife’s sister. And the woman who is about to answer for what happened two years ago.”
***
