Chapter 1 - The Cold Rice
What chilled me was not finding June Carter eating cold rice on my pantry floor at two in the morning.
It was the number she gave me when I asked how much I paid her.
I had come downstairs because sleep had abandoned me again. Two years after my wife died, the mansion still felt too large at night. Every room held something Evelyn had chosen, touched, or laughed about. I usually walked until exhaustion beat memory.
That night, I wanted water.
Instead, I saw the pantry door cracked open and a thin strip of light across the marble floor.
June sat against an oak cabinet in her gray housekeeping uniform. A chipped plate rested on her knees. Cold rice. Green beans. Three pieces of roast beef left from a dinner where six men had sent back untouched steaks because they were cooked medium instead of medium rare.
June looked up and froze.
"Mr. Blackwell. I'm sorry."
She gripped the plate like I might take it from her.
"Sorry for what?"
"I didn't want to waste anything."
Her voice was quiet, but not guilty. Ashamed.
I looked at the food. "When did you last eat?"
She hesitated.
"June."
"Yesterday morning."
My stomach tightened. "You work in this house six days a week. You're paid every Friday. Why are you hungry?"
Her eyes dropped. Around her wrist was a faded thread bracelet with two stitched initials: L and M.
"I send most of it home," she said. "My kids live with my mother in Peoria. Lila's eight. Micah's five. Mom's lungs are bad, and the prescriptions..." She swallowed. "It adds up."
I felt something ugly move through me. Not pity. Shame.
"How much are you paid?"
She named the amount.
I stared at her.
"Say that again."
She did.
My blood went cold.
I knew the household staffing budget because I approved it personally after Evelyn died. June's number was less than half of what Blackwell Domestic Services billed my estate for her labor.
I pulled out my phone and opened the payroll portal.
JUNE CARTER.
The screen showed a gross monthly salary more than twice what she had just told me.
"Who told you your salary was that amount?"
"The agency."
"Which agency?"
She looked confused. "Blackwell Domestic Services."
One of my companies.
I opened the approval history.
There were four signatures beneath the payroll schedule.
Three were automated.
The fourth belonged to Victor Lang, the man I trusted to run half my empire.
Then my phone buzzed.
A security alert appeared from the same payroll system.
May you like
SOMEONE IS ATTEMPTING TO DELETE EMPLOYEE COMPENSATION RECORDS.
The login location was inside my house.
