Chapter 3 - A Gold Watch and Broken Trust
The silence in the dining room was suffocating.
Twenty-four guests stared at us, their expensive dinners completely forgotten.
Matteo looked at the sealed envelope on the table.
Then he looked at the hallway where Bianca had just vanished.
"Excuse us," he said to the room.
His voice was terrifyingly calm.
He didn't wait for a response. He picked up the sealed envelope, took my elbow, and guided me gently but firmly toward the private study.
Mrs. Whitmore followed close behind, clutching her handbag.
The heavy mahogany doors clicked shut, cutting off the whispers.
"Sit," Matteo told me.
I sank into a leather wingback chair. My hands were shaking so badly I had to clasp them together.
Yesterday, my biggest worry was paying my electric bill.
Tonight, the billionaire I cleaned up after was calling me his sister.
Matteo paced the length of the Persian rug.
"My father told me my sister died of respiratory failure three hours after birth," he said, staring at the floor. "I was thirteen. I stood at a tiny grave with a stone that just said 'Baby Girl DeLuca'."
Mrs. Whitmore shook her head sadly.
"That grave is empty, Matteo."
He stopped pacing.
"Why?" he demanded, his composure finally cracking. "Why would my father lie? He loved my mother."
"Your father loved control," Mrs. Whitmore corrected softly. "And he knew what your mother had done just before she passed."
She gestured to the envelope in Matteo's hand.
"Open it."
Matteo slid his finger under the flap and broke the seal.
Inside was a single sheet of heavy parchment paper, notarized and dated twenty-eight years ago.
As he read it, all the color drained from his face.
"Answer one, open two," he muttered to himself.
"What does it say?" I asked, my voice barely a squeak.
He handed the paper to me.
I looked at the elegant cursive handwriting.
To my beloved daughter, should she survive me. I leave you fifty percent of the DeLuca Shipping Empire voting shares. Held in trust until your twenty-eighth birthday.
My jaw dropped.
DeLuca Shipping. One of the largest logistics companies on the East Coast.
"Fifty percent," Matteo repeated, staring at me. "My father spent his life trying to consolidate power. If he admitted you lived, he would have had to split the empire."
He looked at Mrs. Whitmore. "So he gave her away."
"To a lovely family in the suburbs," she nodded. "He paid them a substantial sum to leave Boston. I only found out because your mother confided in me."
Suddenly, the study door swung open.
Bianca stood there, her phone still in her hand.
Her expression was a mask of perfect, innocent concern.
"Matteo, darling," she said smoothly. "I just spoke with my attorney. This is a complete fabrication. That woman is a con artist trying to extort us."
Matteo didn't blink.
"She hasn't asked for a dime, Bianca."
"She will," Bianca insisted, stepping into the room. "And as for Emily, she's clearly in on it. They probably bought that locket at an antique store."
I stood up. "I've worn this locket every day of my life."
"Quiet, Emily," Bianca snapped. "You're a maid. You don't speak unless spoken to."
"Do not speak to my sister like that," Matteo warned. His voice was low, but it rattled the windows.
Bianca recoiled. "Matteo, you can't be serious. You're believing this... this staff member over your future wife?"
"Mrs. Whitmore said you visited her six months ago," Matteo said, walking slowly toward Bianca. "Did you?"
"Of course not!" she scoffed. "I don't even know where she lives."
"I live in Salem," Mrs. Whitmore said quietly. "In a yellow house on Elm Street."
Bianca rolled her eyes. "Anybody could find that out."
"You drank Earl Grey tea," Mrs. Whitmore continued. "And you forgot something on my kitchen counter."
Bianca froze.
Mrs. Whitmore reached into her seemingly bottomless handbag.
She pulled out a heavy gold pocket watch.
It had an intricate crest engraved on the front.
"You said it belonged to your late father," Mrs. Whitmore said, holding it out. "You left it by the sink when you washed your hands."
Bianca's face went completely white.
I recognized that watch. She kept it on her vanity upstairs. I dusted around it twice a week. It had been missing for six months.
Matteo stared at the gold watch in Mrs. Whitmore's hand.
Then he looked at the woman he was supposed to marry in two months.
"You knew," he whispered, the betrayal evident in his eyes.
Bianca took a step back. "Matteo, let me explain."
"You hired her as a maid," he said, his voice rising. "You made the rightful heir to half this company scrub your floors."
"I was protecting you!" Bianca cried out, dropping the mask. "Your father's company is finally going public. If a long-lost sister showed up demanding half the voting shares, the board would panic. The stock would plummet!"
Matteo just looked at her, utterly disgusted.
"Get out."
Bianca blinked. "What?"
"Pack your bags and get out of my house."
"You can't do this," she panicked. "Our wedding... the merger between our families..."
"Is over," Matteo finished.
Bianca looked at me. Pure hatred flashed in her eyes.
"You think you've won?" she hissed. "You don't know the half of it, you little rat."
She turned and stormed out of the study, slamming the heavy doors behind her.
The silence returned.
My head was spinning. A billionaire brother. A shipping empire. A fiancé thrown out.
I looked at the notarized will still trembling in my hand.
I was trying to process it all when I noticed something at the bottom of the page.
A small postscript.
Matteo, if you are reading this, check the lining of my old winter coat in the attic. Do not trust Arthur.
I pointed to the text. "Who is Arthur?"
Matteo and Mrs. Whitmore exchanged a look of pure dread.
"Arthur is my uncle," Matteo said quietly. "The man who took over the company when my father died last year."
May you like
He looked at the ceiling, toward the attic.
"And he's the one who introduced me to Bianca."
