Chapter 2 - The Service Entrance
Julian did not walk toward the park. Instead, he waited until Marcus retreated into the guard pavilion to make a phone call, then slipped into the dense ocean mist along the perimeter wall. He knew every inch of this fifteen-acre estate; he had designed the security grid himself. He knew the blind spots where the rotating infrared cameras lagged by four seconds due to the overhanging cedar branches on the south cliff.
Moving with a quiet agility that belied his gaunt disguise, Julian scaled the low retaining wall near the formal rose gardens and dropped onto the damp earth of the service path.
He needed to see what happened inside the house when the master was away. He needed to know what kind of environment his money was funding.
He navigated the labyrinth of high boxwood hedges until he reached the rear courtyard, where the staff quarters and catering kitchens intersected. The heavy glass doors of the laundry wing were propped open to vent the steam of the industrial presses. Julian slipped inside, concealing his ragged frame behind a towering rack of freshly dry-cleaned formal wear.
Through the doorway of the main pantry, he heard voices.
"You took food from the master's private breakfast service?" The voice was shrill, authoritative, and dripping with venom. It belonged to Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper—a woman Julian had personally approved for a twenty-percent bonus last Christmas due to her impeccable inventory reports.
"It was a single brioche, Mrs. Gable," Elena’s voice responded, calm and even. "The tray had four extras that always go to the compost bin after 11:00 AM. A man was starving at the gate."
"I don't care if he was dying of plague!" Mrs. Gable slapped a clipboard against the stainless-steel prep table with a deafening crack. "Mr. Sterling does not tolerate waste, and he certainly does not tolerate domestic staff distributing estate property to vagrants! Marcus already filed an incident report. You are docked two days' wages, Elena. And if you ever step out of line again, I will see to it that you are blacklisted from every estate in Newport."
Julian’s blood turned to ice behind the garment rack.
Mr. Sterling does not tolerate waste.
The housekeeper was using his name—his reputation—as a weapon to justify cruelty. She was turning his corporate pursuit of efficiency into a moral justification for starving a human being. And worse, she was financially penalizing a woman who earned a fraction of what Julian spent on a casual executive lunch.
"Understood, Mrs. Gable," Elena said softly. There was no defiance in her tone now, only the weary, resigned acceptance of someone who couldn't afford to lose her job.
"Now get down to the wine cellar," the housekeeper barked. "Mr. Trent wants three bottles of the 2018 Cabernet brought up to the security lounge for his evening shift. Move!"
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Julian frowned. The 2018 Cabernet? That was his private reserve, imported directly from Bordeaux at twelve hundred dollars a bottle. Why was the head of security ordering vintage wine for a shift lounge?
As Elena walked past his hiding spot toward the cellar stairs, her head lowered, Julian stepped out from the shadows and began to follow her into the underground depths of his own home.
