Chapter 3: The Cold Kitchen and the Shadowed Door

The darkness inside Johnson Manor pressed heavy against the tall, arched corridors, broken only by the sharp flashes of lightning through the high windows. The icy dampness of her wet clothes clung to Emma’s skin, but the cold inside her chest was far sharper. Her stepmother’s threat echoed in her mind with every tick of the grand pendulum clock in the hall. Twelve hours. She had less than twelve hours to secure Ethan’s signature before her mother’s life support was pulled.

Emma knew that marching up to Ethan’s locked wing right now and demanding a signature on a financial asset transfer would only validate his suspicions. He already viewed her as a spy sent by her family to pick at his bones. If she wanted that signature, she needed to understand the lay of the land first—and locate his private study.

Leaving her solitary suitcase near the grand staircase, Emma navigated the sprawling, labyrinthine estate. The sheer scale of the manor was breathtaking, built with dark mahogany panels, towering marble pillars, and priceless antique artwork. Yet, a thick layer of dust coated the side tables, and the air smelled stale, damp, and neglected.

As she rounded a corner into the west wing, the quiet atmosphere was abruptly broken by the sound of muffled laughter and the clinking of heavy glass coming from behind a set of double doors.

Emma pushed the door open, revealing a vast, commercial-grade kitchen.

Sitting around a polished steel prep table were three staff members—a plump, middle-aged woman in a head housekeeper’s uniform and two younger servants in aprons. Spread out on the table before them was an extravagant spread: high-end cuts of imported steak, expensive wine, and delicate pastries.

The head housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, was in the middle of pouring herself a third glass of vintage wine when she noticed Emma standing at the entrance. She didn't bother putting the bottle down or standing up. Instead, she offered a slow, dismissive once-over, her eyes lingering mockingly on Emma’s waterlogged coat and modest demeanor.

"Well, well," Mrs. Gable drawled, taking a slow sip of wine. "Look what the rain dragged in. You must be the new Mrs. Johnson."

The two servants giggled into their sleeves, completely devoid of respect.

Emma’s eyes swept across the lavish table, taking in the expensive ingredients, before landing on a lonely tray sitting on a side counter. On it rested a bowl of cold, congealed porridge and a single glass of tap water.

"Is that meant for Mr. Johnson?" Emma asked, her voice calm and level.

Mrs. Gable snorted, swirling her glass. "The master doesn't like to be disturbed. He gets his tray dropped off outside his hallway at six o'clock every night. If he eats it, he eats it. If he doesn't, the dog gets it. Not like he comes out to complain anyway."

"I see," Emma said softly, stepping fully into the kitchen. "And this meal on the table? I don't recall the budget for domestic staff including five-hundred-dollar bottles of Bordeaux and imported wagyu."

Mrs. Gable’s relaxed posture stiffened slightly, a flash of irritation crossing her weathered face. She set her glass down with a sharp *clack*. "Listen here, little girl. You might have signed a paper this morning, but don't go getting grand ideas about your place. Mr. Johnson is a broken invalid who doesn't look at the books. His uncle approves the monthly household receipts, and he has no problem with how we run things. So if I were you, I’d take your wet shoes upstairs and stay out of my kitchen."

The mention of Ethan’s uncle caught Emma’s attention instantly. The staff wasn't just lazy; they were openly colluding with the family traitors who were stripping Ethan’s assets, embezzling household funds, and intentionally treating the fallen CEO like an animal in a cage.

Emma didn't raise her voice. She didn't throw a temper tantrum. Instead, she walked right up to the steel table, her posture straight, her gaze turning as cold and sharp as surgical steel.

"The Carter family sold me to this house to clear a debt," Emma said, her voice dropping into a quiet, dangerous register that made the two younger servants instantly freeze. "Which means I have absolute legal standing as the mistress of this estate. Your contracts, your salaries, and your presence under this roof depend entirely on my discretion."

Mrs. Gable opened her mouth to scoff, but Emma stepped closer, her eyes locking onto the housekeeper with terrifying intensity.

"I know what a falsified receipt looks like," Emma continued smoothly. "And I know how federal auditors react when a domestic employee is caught embezzling tens of thousands of dollars from a disabled employer. Tomorrow morning, I will personally inspect the estate’s ledger. If there is a single discrepancy, I won't just fire you, Mrs. Gable. I will ensure the police drag you out of this kitchen in handcuffs."

Mrs. Gable turned pale, the smug arrogance evaporating from her face instantly. She swallowed hard, looking at Emma as if seeing her for the first time. The meek, disposable bride her family had discarded was nowhere to be found.

"Now," Emma commanded, tapping her fingers lightly on the steel table. "Clear this trash off the table. Prepare a proper, high-protein meal for Mr. Johnson—cooked fresh, perfectly balanced, and served hot. You have fifteen minutes."

"Y-yes, ma'am," Mrs. Gable stammered, scrambling out of her chair so fast her wine glass almost overturned. The other two servants practically leapt to their feet, rushing to obey.

Ten minutes later, Emma carried a heavy silver tray down the quiet, dimly lit corridor of the east wing. On the tray sat a plate of perfectly seared steak, steamed vegetables, and a pot of fresh hot tea.

She reached the massive, locked mahogany doors that separated Ethan’s private suite from the rest of the estate. The corridor was pitch black, the air heavy with an oppressive silence that felt like a physical weight.

Emma set one hand against the cold wood of the double doors, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves. She raised her free hand to knock, preparing herself to face the savage, arrogant man inside and begin the impossible task of securing his trust—and his signature.

Before her knuckles could touch the wood, a violent, deafening *THUD* echoed from inside the room.

It was the sound of a heavy body crashing brutally against the hardwood floor, followed immediately by the sharp, terrifying shatter of porcelain.

Emma froze, her heart leaping into her throat.

From behind the heavy oak doors came a low, ragged rasp—an agonizing groan of raw, unfiltered pain that cut through the silent hall like a knife.