Chapter 8 - The Interrogation in the StudyBy 1:30 AM, the grand ballroom had been cleared of guests.
The eighty syndicate commanders had departed under heavy armed escort, having signed mutual non-aggression pacts that transferred all Sterling banking lines and shipping berths into the Blackwood Maritime Trust without firing a single bullet.
In the private master study on the third floor, a massive fire crackled in the limestone hearth, driving away the freezing November draft that blew off the Hudson River.
Laurel sat on the deep velvet chaise lounge, wrapped in a plush cashmere blanket that Mrs. Higgins had draped over her trembling shoulders.
Her cheap, worn service shoes had been removed, replaced with warm shearling slippers. On the low cherrywood table sat a fresh mug of hot peppermint tea and the black velvet box containing the two clay stars.
The double mahogany doors swung open.
Damian walked in.
He had removed his dinner jacket, wearing an unbuttoned white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his corded forearms, looking relaxed, powerful, and remarkably whole.
In his right hand, he carried a secure digital tablet.
He sat on the leather ottoman opposite her, tapping the screen.
“Theo has landed at Massachusetts General, Laurel,” Damian said softly, turning the display toward her.
On the live high-definition video feed, Theo was sitting up in a sunlit private hospital suite, wearing clean cotton pajamas, clutching a wooden toy sailboat that the flight crew had given him, laughing as Mrs. Gable fed him warm strawberry soup.
Beside him stood Dr. Vance, the world’s leading pediatric eye surgeon, reviewing digital retinal scans with a wide, confident smile.
“The optic nerves are completely viable, Miss Mercer,” Dr. Vance spoke through the tablet’s speaker. “The congenital cataracts have not caused irreversible amblyopia. We are performing the bilateral lens replacement at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Your brother will have twenty-twenty vision before the weekend is over.”
Tears of pure, radiant happiness blurred Laurel’s vision, spilling over her lashes before she could stop them.
“Theo... oh, Theo,” she sobbed softly, pressing her fingers against the screen.
Theo seemed to hear her voice. He tilted his chin upward, smiling toward the camera, holding up the little wooden boat.
“Laurie! The airplane had wings like a bird! And the doctor said I’m going to see the snow tomorrow!”
Laughter rippled through the quiet study.
Damian closed the call with a gentle touch, setting the tablet on the table.
He reached out with his large, warm hand, taking Laurel’s right hand into his own, his thumb gently smoothing over her knuckles.
“Your brother is going to see the snow, Laurel,” Damian murmured, his gray eyes burning into hers with an intensity that took her breath away. “And he is going to see his sister take her rightful place at the head of this house.”
Laurel looked down at their joined hands, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“Damian... yesterday I was an agency temp scrubbing baseboards for fifteen dollars an hour. The people in that room looked at me like I was a speck of dirt.”
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Damian leaned forward until his face was inches from hers, his deep baritone vibrating with absolute, unyielding conviction.
“The people in that room are paper monarchs who spend their lives hiding behind contracts and diamond necklaces, Laurel,” he whispered. “You stood before eighty armed men with your head held high, refusing to bow to a bully. In my world, that kind of courage is worth more than all the gold in Manhattan.”
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