Chapter Five – The Locked Wing

“You ever wonder why the west wing is always locked?”

Amira’s voice was low as she stirred her tea in the conservatory. The sun hung high in the sky, but her body felt ice-cold. She didn’t look at Evelyn when she asked. She didn’t need to. The silence told her everything.

“I’m not paid to wonder,” Evelyn said after a long pause.

Amira turned to face her. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s also not a yes.”

Amira stood slowly. “Then I guess I’ll find out for myself.”

Evelyn dropped the silver spoon she’d been polishing. It clanged loudly against the table. “Miss Wells.”

But Amira was already gone.

She didn’t wait for nightfall.

No more creeping around like some obedient guest. She was a prisoner—she knew that now—and prisoners didn’t wait for permission.

The west wing hall smelled different—dustier, colder. The portraits were covered with sheets. The rugs were frayed. Light bulbs flickered like tired hearts.

She passed three locked doors before one clicked open beneath her hand.

The air inside was stale. The carpet worn. The window sealed shut with thick blackout curtains.

There was a crib in the corner.

But no baby.

Not even a sound.

Amira stepped closer, her breath catching when she saw the name embroidered on the pillow:

CLEMENTINE.

Her fingers trembled.

“Who’s Clementine?” she whispered to herself.

“She was the first.”

The voice came from behind.

Amira spun around, heartbeat exploding.

A girl—no older than twenty—stood in the doorway. Pale. Barefoot. Her hair hung limp around her face, and her dress looked like it belonged in another decade.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” the girl said.

“Who are you?” Amira asked. “How did you get in?”

“I never left,” she said simply. “He just… stopped acknowledging me.”

“What?”

The girl walked over and picked up the stuffed lamb from the floor. “I was supposed to be his surrogate. Like you.”

Amira’s skin crawled. “You were pregnant?”

“For a while,” she said. “Then I got too curious. Started asking questions.”

“What happened?”

“I lost the baby,” she said. “And almost lost my mind.”

Amira backed away. “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to,” the girl said. “But you should know—he’ll take everything from you. Piece by piece. Until the only thing you want is to please him.”

“I’m not like you,” Amira whispered.

The girl smiled. “That’s what I said too.”

“Who is Clementine?”

Amira confronted Dominic in his office later that night, eyes wide with defiance.

He didn’t flinch.

“She was a child I almost adopted. Her mother backed out at the last second.”

“That’s not what the girl said.”

Dominic’s expression hardened. “What girl?”

“The one in the west wing.”

He stood slowly. “That part of the house is sealed.”

“It’s not sealed well enough,” Amira snapped. “Who is she?”

Dominic stepped around his desk, towering over her. “There is no girl, Amira.”

“You’re lying.”

“And you’re hallucinating.”

“I know what I saw.”

“Do you?” he asked. “Or are you letting your emotions play games with you?”

“Her name was Clementine—”

“Clementine is gone,” Dominic said sharply. “She never even made it here. The court denied the adoption. End of story.”

“Then why is her name on a crib in your house?”

Dominic’s jaw clenched. “This isn’t a courtroom, Amira. You don’t interrogate me.”

“I’m carrying your child!” she yelled. “I have a right to know what kind of world they’re being born into!”

He grabbed her by the wrist—not hard, but tight enough to assert control.

“You’re carrying my child,” he said. “And this world? It’s the one I choose to build for them. Not you.”

She yanked her arm free, chest heaving. “You’re sick.”

“You’re scared,” he corrected. “And I don’t blame you. But don’t confuse fear with truth.”

Amira sat by her window that night, staring out at the gardens below. The wind howled through the trees. Rain splattered against the glass like tiny screams.

She couldn’t sleep.

Not with the girl’s voice echoing in her ears.

“He’ll take everything from you.”

There had to be records. Proof. Something to ground her.

She grabbed her tablet and started digging.

Hospital records. Court cases. Medical licenses.

She typed in “Dominic Voss” and narrowed the filter to lawsuits.

Nothing came up.

She typed in “Clementine Voss.”

Still nothing.

Then she tried: “Voss surrogacy scandal.”

A single article appeared. Dated five years ago.

Unverified allegations surface around tech mogul Dominic Voss and unregulated surrogacy agreements. No charges were filed. Investigations quietly closed. No public statements released.

Her blood turned cold.

The page suddenly refreshed.

ACCESS DENIED.

“What the hell?”

She refreshed again.

Error: Page no longer exists.

Her tablet buzzed with a new message:

DOMINIC: Stop searching. Go to sleep.

Amira dropped the device like it burned.

He was watching.

The next morning, she found Evelyn in the kitchen preparing breakfast.

“I need answers,” Amira said. “Now.”

Evelyn didn’t look up. “You were warned.”

“Who was the girl? The one in the west wing.”

Evelyn stirred the eggs in silence.

“She said she was pregnant. She said she lived here.”

“Don’t chase ghosts,” Evelyn murmured.

“She’s real.”

“She was real,” Evelyn said. “Her name was Naomi.”

Amira blinked.

“She came here willingly. Like you. Young. Alone. Full of dreams.”

“What happened to her?”

Evelyn paused. “She broke the rules.”

“What rules?”

“She tried to leave… after signing everything. She wanted to take the child with her. Dominic couldn’t allow that.”

“So what did he do?”

“She lost the baby,” Evelyn said softly. “And after that… she stopped speaking. Stopped eating. We don’t even know if she’s still here. Sometimes we hear noises. That’s all.”

Amira’s eyes welled up. “That’s insane.”

“You still have a choice,” Evelyn said. “But that choice has to come soon.”

“What choice?”

“To keep fighting—or survive.”

That night, Amira lay in bed, one hand on her belly, one gripping the sheets.

She wasn’t imagining it.

The girl was real. The stories were real.

And if she stayed much longer…

She wouldn’t just lose her baby.

She’d lose herself.