Chapter 4 - The Matriarch's Arrival
The name Beatrice Cross seemed to drop the temperature in the room below freezing.
Stellan’s expression transformed instantly from shock to pure, unadulterated venom. The protective fatherly warmth vanished, replaced by the lethal predator of the Chicago underworld.
"Hide them," Stellan ordered, his voice low and absolute. He pointed toward the private panic room hidden behind the bookshelf. "Go inside, Nora. Do not make a sound, no matter what you hear."
"Stellan, what about—"
"Go!" he snapped, taking Fern from my arms with one fluid motion and pushing both of us toward the heavy oak paneling.
The panel swung shut with a soft click, plunging us into a dimly lit, narrow corridor lined with monitors and communication screens. Through the high-resolution camera feeds, I could see the grand double doors of the office opening.
A woman in a sharp, tailored plum suit stepped inside. She walked with the absolute authority of someone who owned the air she breathed. Beatrice Cross. Even in her late sixties, her posture was rigid, her silver hair styled in a flawless chignon, and her eyes sharp enough to cut glass. Behind her stood four men in black suits, their hands resting ominously inside their jackets.
"Stellan," Beatrice’s voice echoed through the hidden speakers. "I heard a rumor that you’ve turned your executive suite into a nursery. Is this the thanks I get for building this family empire?"
Stellan stood behind his desk, leaning his palms against the polished rosewood. He looked terrifyingly calm. "Mother. To what do I owe the pleasure of a raid without an invitation?"
"Don't play games with me," Beatrice sneered, stepping closer. "Word has reached the board that you’ve been harboring some low-class woman and a bastard child in this building. Is it true? Are you planning to let a nobody ruin the Cross bloodline?"
My breath hitched in my throat. I held Fern tightly against me, my heart pounding against my ribs like a caged bird.
"The bloodline is fine, Mother," Stellan replied smoothly, though a muscle in his jaw twitched. "In fact, it’s stronger than you think. Because the child you’re talking about... is Caleb's daughter."
May you like
Beatrice froze. The color drained from her face, leaving her powdered skin looking like chalk. "Caleb is dead."
"Is he?" Stellan stepped around the desk, his eyes locking onto hers with deadly intensity. "Or did you just banish him because he didn't want to live by your cold, miserable rules? Did you fake his death just to keep the trust fund intact?"
