Chapter 2 - The Mask Slips
I didn't meet Patricia at the front door. I remained in my study, leaving the heavy oak door cracked just enough to hear the hallway.
The front chime rang. A moment later, I heard Clara’s quiet steps across the marble foyer, followed by the soft click of the front door opening.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hale,” Clara said politely.
“Where are the girls?” Patricia’s voice was sharp, lacking any of the warmth she put on whenever I was in the room.
“They are in the kitchen finishing their breakfast, ma’am.”
“I told you yesterday, Clara, that they shouldn't be eating processed sugar in the morning,” Patricia said condescendingly, the sharp heel of her Louboutins clicking rhythmically against the floor. “Ethan trusts me to oversee this household’s standards while he is away in Chicago. You seem to have a severe issue following basic instructions.”
“Mr. Whitaker left permission for them to have a slice of Avery’s birthday cake this morning, Mrs. Hale,” Clara replied calmly, refusing to let her voice shake. “It’s a special occasion.”
“Mr. Whitaker is a busy man who doesn't have time to manage the micro-details of child-rearing,” Patricia snapped. She stepped closer to Clara; I could hear the rustle of her silk blouse. “Let’s be entirely honest with each other, Clara. You’re a maid. A temp-agency hire with a cheap resume. You’ve overstayed your welcome here. I’ve already spoken to Ethan about replacing you with a professional governance agency from London.”
“If Mr. Whitaker wishes to terminate my employment, I will pack my bags immediately,” Clara said softly. “But until he tells me himself, my priority is the well-being of Avery and Sophie.”
“You think you’re clever, don't you?” Patricia sneered, her voice dropping into a low, venomous hiss. “You think because you wipe their noses and tell them bedtime stories, you’re untouchable? You’re an obstacle, Clara. And I eliminate obstacles. I suggest you take your severance and leave before I make sure you never work in this city again.”
I had heard enough.
I pulled open the study door and stepped out into the foyer.
“Is there a problem here, Patricia?”
Patricia froze. She whirled around, her hands instantly flying to her chest, her carefully cultivated expression of cruel arrogance melting into a look of absolute, unadulterated shock.
“Ethan!” she gasped, her cheeks flushing red. “I… I thought you were on a private jet to Illinois!”
Clara turned, her wide brown eyes locking onto mine. For a brief second, she looked terrified that I had heard Patricia’s threats and would enforce them. She immediately dropped her gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry, Mr. Whitaker. I didn't mean to cause a disturbance.”
“You didn't cause anything, Clara,” I said, my voice smooth as ice as I walked slowly down the hall toward them. I kept my eyes fixed entirely on Patricia. “My flight was delayed. So I decided to return home to handle a few internal matters.”
Patricia quickly recovered her composure, stepping toward me with a practiced, elegant smile, reaching out to touch my lapel. “Darling, you scared me! I was just explaining to Clara that the girls need a firmer routine. She’s far too lenient with them—”
“Clara,” I interrupted, not looking away from Patricia’s panicked eyes. “Please go upstairs and check on the girls.”
“Yes, Mr. Whitaker,” Clara murmured, quickly stepping around us and heading up the grand staircase.
Once Clara’s footsteps faded into the upper hall, I reached out, gently took Patricia’s hand off my lapel, and set it aside.
“Ethan?” she asked, a flicker of genuine fear finally appearing in her eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Why do you want Clara gone, Patricia?” I asked quietly.
“I told you!” she stammered, stepping back. “She’s unprofessional! She’s trying to position herself as a mother figure to Avery and Sophie! It’s unhealthy!”
“She remembered that Avery likes maximum frosting,” I said softly. “She knew that Sophie’s hand trembles when she’s scared. She leaves a blue nightlight on so my daughter doesn't scream in the dark.” I stepped closer to Patricia, towering over her. “You told my five-year-old child that I would abandon her if she kept crying.”
Patricia went ghost-white. “Who… who told you that? The maid is lying to you!”
“I heard it from my daughter’s own mouth,” I growled. “Get out of my house.”
“Ethan, please! You’re misinterpreting things—”
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“If you set foot on my property again, Patricia,” I whispered, leaning down so only she could hear the promise in my voice, “I won't care who your father was. Get out.”
She didn't argue further. She grabbed her designer purse, turned on her heel, and practically ran out the front door.
