Chapter 2 - The Fortress of Glass
“You’ve built a fortress to protect them from the world, Mr. Thorne,” Hannah whispered, her clear blue eyes holding mine without a single flicker of hesitation. “But in doing so, you’ve locked yourself outside of their lives. A father who buys remedies isn't the same as a father who stays to hold their hand.”
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush a lesser man. In the underworld of New York, men spoke to Julian Thorne with bowed heads or trembling voices. I had ordered executions with a flick of my wrist. I had broken international cartels before breakfast. Yet this twenty-four-year-old woman in a simple maid’s apron had just stripped away my armor with two quiet sentences.
I didn't yell. I didn't reach for the heavy brass paperweight on the mahogany side table.
I simply stared at her.
“You forget who pays your salary, Miss Mercer,” I said, my voice dropping to a low, lethal baritone.
“I haven't forgotten,” she replied softly. “And if you want to fire me, you can. But as long as I’m in this house, I will treat Claire like a girl who can fly, not a delicate glass doll you’re afraid to break.”
She picked up her laundry basket, offered a polite, respectful bow, and walked out of the sitting room, leaving me alone in the shadows.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I sat in my study on the top floor of the estate, surrounded by security monitors displaying every inch of the twelve-acre property. On screen four, I watched the camera inside the twins’ bedroom. Claire and Chloe were curled together under a pink blanket, sleeping soundly. Beside their nightstand lay the crude yellow paper moon Claire had painted.
My chest throbbed with a strange, unfamiliar ache.
I picked up the secure satellite phone on my desk and dialed Frank, my chief of security and right-hand man for fifteen years.
“Boss?” Frank answered on the second ring, his voice alert. “Is there a breach at the estate?”
“No,” I said coldly. “I need a deep-level background check on Hannah Mercer. Every address, every bank account, every relative, every high school record. I want to know what she ate for breakfast three years ago.”
“Hannah?” Frank sounded surprised. “We ran her through the federal databases before hiring her, boss. She passed top-tier clearance. Clean record, orphan from upstate, worked private domestic services.”
“Run it again,” I commanded. “Use our military intelligence contacts. A woman doesn't stand face-to-face with a lion without flinching unless she’s used to dealing with predators. Find out who she really is.”
By dawn, I was standing in the sunroom as the early light filtered through the glass roof. I looked down at the soft rug where Claire had taken her first steps.
For three years, I had believed that keeping my distance was an act of love. My life was bloody, dangerous, and violent. Viktor Rostov, the ruthless leader of the Bratva syndicate in Brooklyn, was currently waging a silent war against my shipping routes. I had believed that by staying detached, by keeping my daughters hidden in a golden cage surrounded by bodyguards and elite doctors, I was keeping them safe.
Instead, I had turned myself into a stranger in my own home.
The door to the sunroom creaked open. Hannah stepped inside carrying a tray of fresh coffee and fruit. She stopped when she saw me standing there in my tailored suit, my arms crossed over my chest.
“Mr. Thorne,” she said quietly, setting the tray down on the glass table. “I didn't expect you to be up so early.”
“I didn't sleep,” I confessed, looking out at the sun rising over the Hudson River. “Tell me about the moon.”
Hannah paused, a gentle warmth touching her lips. “Claire was crying last week during her physical therapy session. The therapist was pushing her hard, and she felt like her weak leg was a monster holding her down. That night, she pointed at the moon through her bedroom window and asked me why it didn't fall out of the sky.”
I turned to look at Hannah. “What did you tell her?”
“I told her the moon doesn't fall because it isn't afraid of the dark,” Hannah said softly. “I told her that every step she takes is just her jumping toward the moon. If she believes she’s traveling, she forgets to be terrified of the floor.”
Something shattered inside my chest—a wall I had built around my heart the day my wife died giving birth to the twins. I walked toward Hannah, stopping just two feet away.
Before I could speak, my encrypted phone vibrated violently in my pocket. I pulled it out and answered.
“Julian,” Frank’s voice sounded tense, stripped of its usual calm. “We’ve got a massive problem. The background check on Hannah Mercer came back.”
I kept my eyes locked on Hannah. She noticed my sudden shift in posture, her smile fading into a look of quiet caution.
“What is it, Frank?” I demanded.
May you like
“Hannah Mercer doesn't exist,” Frank reported grimly. “Her credentials were encrypted using Russian military-grade intelligence protocols. She isn't an orphan from upstate, boss. She’s Sarah Rostov—Viktor Rostov’s estranged daughter.”
***
