Chapter 3 - The Locked Laundry RoomVincent didn't remember crossing the ballroom.

One second he was staring at the empty place where Emily had been.

The next, he was tearing open doors.

“Find the girl!”

Guards scattered.

Dominic ran toward the service hall.

“Charles!”

No answer.

Vincent stopped at the shattered window.

Cold rain blew inside.

The phone was gone.

Emily was gone.

Charles was gone.

Three disappearances in under ten seconds.

Too clean.

Too coordinated.

Then Vincent noticed blood on the marble.

A tiny smear.

Not much.

But enough.

“Dominic.”

His lieutenant crouched.

“That's not Emily's.”

“How do you know?”

“Too dark. Old blood.”

Vincent looked at the hallway.

“Who had access to the east wing tonight?”

“Everyone on staff.”

“Lock them all down.”

Dominic hesitated.

“All?”

“All.”

Within minutes, every servant was gathered in the dining hall.

Vincent walked among them.

His gaze passed over dozens of frightened faces.

Then stopped on Grace.

She was crying.

Her eyes were fixed on an empty chair.

“Where is Emily?”

Grace shook her head.

“I don't know.”

Vincent stood in front of her.

“You said you wanted her protected.”

“I do.”

“Then tell me what she knows.”

Grace closed her eyes.

“She remembers things.”

“What things?”

“The house.”

Vincent's expression changed.

“What does that mean?”

“When she was five, Sofia used to take Emily into the laundry room.”

“Why?”

“She said Emily reminded her of herself.”

Vincent remembered Sofia doing that.

Sitting on the floor.

Laughing with servants' children.

Painting cardboard castles.

He had thought it was nothing.

Now every ordinary memory felt poisonous.

Grace whispered:

“Sofia showed her something.”

“What?”

“I don't know.”

“You're lying.”

“No.”

Vincent turned to the guards.

“Search every room.”

They began.

Minutes later, Dominic returned.

“We found a hidden panel in the laundry room.”

Vincent followed him.

The laundry room smelled of detergent and old wood.

Behind a row of cabinets was a narrow metal door.

The lock had been scratched recently.

Vincent touched it.

Cold.

He remembered never seeing the door.

Dominic forced it open.

A staircase descended into darkness.

Vincent went first.

At the bottom was a small concrete chamber.

Empty.

Except for a chair.

A drain.

And dozens of photographs pinned to the wall.

Vincent stopped breathing.

Every photograph was of Sofia.

Sofia entering the garden.

Sofia leaving a restaurant.

Sofia standing beside Vincent.

Sofia sleeping.

Sofia talking to Dominic.

There were photographs of Isabella.

And Charles.

And Grace.

And Emily.

Someone had been watching all of them.

For years.

Dominic ripped one photograph from the wall.

“Boss…”

It showed Charles entering the room.

Timestamped.

Three years earlier.

Vincent turned.

On the far wall was a single sentence written in black ink:

HE WAS NEVER THE PRISONER.

Dominic looked at him.

“What does that mean?”

Vincent didn't answer.

He was staring at another photograph.

It showed Sofia tied to a chair.

This time her face was visible.

And standing behind her was a man.

Vincent recognized him instantly.

Charles Bellamy.

But there was another person in the photograph.

A woman.

Young.

Blonde.

Wearing Isabella's exact silver pendant.

Vincent stepped closer.

“That's not Isabella.”

Dominic shook his head.

“No.”

Vincent stared.

“Then who is she?”

A voice came from the doorway.

Grace.

She had followed them downstairs.

Her face was destroyed by fear.

“You know her.”

Vincent looked at her.

“Who?”

Grace pointed at the photograph.

“That woman.”

“Who is she?”

Grace whispered:

“Sofia's sister.”

Vincent stared.

“Sofia had a sister?”

Grace nodded.

“She wasn't supposed to exist.”

Dominic looked confused.

“Why?”

Grace's eyes filled with tears.

“Because Sofia wasn't born a Moretti.”

Vincent turned sharply.

“What are you talking about?”

Grace took a breath.

“Sofia's real name wasn't Sofia Moretti.”

The room became colder.

“What was it?”

Grace hesitated.

Then whispered:

“Sofia Bellamy.”

Vincent stared at her.

The name hit harder than a bullet.

Dominic stepped back.

“Bellamy?”

Grace nodded.

“Charles was her older brother.”

Vincent's mind raced.

Charles.

Sofia.

The necklace.

The disappearance.

The recordings.

The trust.

Everything had been connected.

Then a faint sound came from behind the wall.

A phone ringing.

Vincent turned.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Dominic pulled his weapon.

“There.”

They found a small opening hidden behind a ventilation grate.

Inside was a second phone.

Vincent pulled it out.

The screen showed one message.

YOU HAVE TEN MINUTES.

Then another.

COME ALONE.

Then a final line:

OR YOUR DAUGHTER DIES.

Vincent froze.

Dominic looked at him.

“Boss…”

Vincent stared at the words.

“Emily isn't Charles's hostage.”

Dominic frowned.

“What?”

Vincent slowly understood.

“He never wanted the phone.”

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He looked toward the staircase.

“He wanted me.”