Marina could feel Jonathan’s gaze lingering on her. She lowered her head just a touch, feigning shyness and letting a delicate flush creep into her cheeks.
She was certain Jonathan understood now-
She was the one who loved him most.
Forget Niamh, forget the wealthy girls from the Quinn family–none of them could hold a candle to her devotion.
Once, she had been the one Jonathan loved most.
Now, she was the one who loved him most.
“Jonathan, I…‘
Marina’s voice was honeyed as she reached for a connection, hoping to bridge the distance between them.
But before she could say more, Sprague called Jonathan over for dinner.
The long dining table was set with an array of exquisite dishes, each plate a testament to culinary artistry. At the center stood a towering three–tiered cake, custom–made by Aldenville’s most famous bakery.
Amid the boisterous chorus of well–wishes, Jonathan picked up his fork and tasted one of the dishes.
Not good…
Well, calling it “not good” was unfair to the Michelin–star chef. The truth was, Jonathan simply didn’t like it.
His taste buds ached for something familiar–a flavor from his past he’d grown up with and grown to love, something these gourmet creations couldn’t match.
“Here, Jonathan, try some of this crab bisque! It’s Chef Blake’s specialty.”
Marina scooped up a spoonful of the creamy soup and offered it to Jonathan.
But Jonathan suddenly stood up.
“Jonathan, where are you going?” Marina called after him.
He ignored her, leaving the old manor behind without so much as a backward glance.
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Around the table, guests exchanged uneasy looks.
Sprague forced a smile, working to reassure everyone even as he grumbled inwardly:
That boy’s gotten too bold for his own good–completely out of hand these days.
Clifford Thomas watched with a furrowed brow, deep in thought.
It was the first time Jonathan had ever stormed out in the middle of his own birthday celebration.
—
At the construction site, Niamh had barely stepped inside when a worker stopped her.
“Who are you looking for?” he asked. The man was bundled up in a work uniform, hard hat, and a face mask, nearly unrecognizable.
“I’m here for Mr. York,” Niamh replied.
“Mr. York isn’t here yet. You can wait for him in the break room.”
The worker led her deeper into the site.
The ground was muddy and uneven, scattered with steel rods and concrete. On this rainy, overcast day, the skeletal framework of the building looked like the bones of some long–dead beast.
Niamh followed cautiously as the worker guided her to a set of concrete stairs leading underground.
“Are we really going down there?” she hesitated, uneasy.
“Of course. You think there’s anywhere nice to sit on a construction site?”
“I can just wait up here,” Niamh suggested.
“You’d just get in our way. If something fell and hit you, we couldn’t afford the trouble,” the worker retorted.
He had a point. With no real alternative, Niamh reluctantly started down the stairs.
At the bottom was a heavy, rusted metal door. The worker pulled it open and flipped a switch. A bare bulb flickered overhead, filling the small, windowless room with a harsh, uncertain light.
The so–called break room was barely more than a concrete cell. Cracks spidered
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across the floor, and the only furniture was a battered plastic stool. Niamh noticed a rusted fuse box on the wall-
So this used to be an old electrical room, now repurposed as a place to sit.
“Just wait here for Mr. York,” the worker said, then turned and left.
Niamh had barely sat down on the plastic stool when a sharp screech of metal on
metal echoed behind her.
She shot to her feet and ran to the door, pushing hard.
It wouldn’t budge.
She was locked in.
A jolt of panic shot through her. She pounded on the door. “Hey! Is anyone there? Open the door! Let me out!”
No one answered.
Heart racing, Niamh pulled out her phone to call Mr. York, but there was no signal–no bars, no connection, nothing.
Thunder rumbled overhead. With a loud, sudden pop, the single bulb went out, plunging the abandoned electrical room into darkness.
09:43
