Chapter 2 - The Silent Floor
The third floor of the Cross estate was a place Nora hadn't been allowed to enter. It was the residential wing, private and heavily guarded by men who didn't wear uniforms but carried themselves with the distinct, light-footed posture of trained military security.
The nursery suite was vast, painted in soft creams and lit by massive windows that overlooked the manicured rear gardens of the estate. Within two hours of Stellan’s order, a pristine white crib had been delivered, alongside boxes of medical supplies, clothes that still had the tags on them from premium boutiques on Michigan Avenue, and a refrigerator stocked with high-grade infant formula.
Nora sat on the edge of the cream-colored sofa, her hands tucked between her knees. She had been given a soft gray cashmere tracksuit to replace her damp cleaning uniform, but she felt more out of place now than she had while scrubbing the floors.
"You should eat," Mrs. Aldridge said, stepping into the room with a silver tray containing a bowl of chicken broth and fresh bread. Her tone had shifted from the sharp reprimand of a supervisor to the cautious deference of someone dealing with an unknown variable. "Mr. Cross doesn't tolerate waste."
"Why is he doing this, Mrs. Aldridge?" Nora asked, her eyes wide. "He doesn't know me. He doesn't know Wren. He’s... he’s Stellan Cross. He doesn't do charity."
Mrs. Aldridge set the tray down on the coffee table, her older face softening by a fraction. "Thirty years I’ve worked for this family, Nora. I saw Stellan when he was twenty, when his father was still alive and the streets were a bloodbath every Tuesday night. I’ve seen him order things that would keep you awake for the rest of your life. But I’ve never seen him look at a person the way he looked at your daughter today."
She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The Crosses don't have children, Nora. Stellan’s brother died ten years ago in a warehouse explosion in Cicero. Stellan himself has never married. The bloodline ends with him. When a man like that sees a child who doesn't fear him, a child who looks at the scar on his face and smiles... it does something to his architecture. Don't question it. Just accept the shelter."
Before Nora could reply, the door opened, and Stellan walked in. He had changed into a clean dark blue shirt, the cuffs rolled up, his hands thoroughly scrubbed, though the skin around his knuckles was still raw and red. He carried Wren easily against his shoulder, her tiny head bobbing against his neck as she looked around the room with wide, curious eyes.
"The doctor is downstairs," Stellan said, his voice cutting through the room’s silence. "Dr. Vance. He’s the head of pediatrics at Northwestern. He’s on our payroll. He’s going to do a full workup on her lungs."
"She had a checkup last week," Nora said defensively, standing up. "The clinic on 47th said—"
"The clinic on 47th is underfunded and has a four-hour wait time for a basic nebulizer," Stellan said, stepping past her to lay Wren gently onto the plush changing table that had been set up against the wall. "Vance is here now. He brought his own equipment."
A middle-aged man with sharp features and a leather medical bag entered behind Stellan. He gave Nora a polite nod before moving to the table with the practiced efficiency of an elite specialist. For twenty minutes, Nora watched as Dr. Vance checked Wren’s ears, listened to her lungs with a miniature stethoscope, and measured her oxygen saturation with a small clip on her toe.
Wren didn't cry. She kept her eyes on Stellan, who stood at the foot of the table like an iron sentinel, his arms crossed over his chest. Every time she made a small gurgling sound, his eyes narrowed, focusing entirely on her movements.
"Her right lung has some residual scarring from the ventilator she was on during her first month," Dr. Vance said, wiping his stethoscope with an alcohol pad. "But nothing that can't be corrected with a targeted course of steroid therapy and a high-efficiency particulate air system in her room. I’ve brought the medication. She’ll be fine, Mr. Cross."
"And the genetic screening?" Stellan asked.
The question hung in the air, sudden and sharp. Nora looked from Stellan to the doctor, her chest tightening. "Genetic screening? Why would she need that? She just has asthma from being premature."
Dr. Vance didn't look at Nora; he kept his eyes on Stellan. "I took the buccal swab while I was checking her palate. The sample is already on its way to our private lab in Lincoln Park. We’ll have the full panel—including the specific familial markers you requested—by tomorrow morning."
"Good," Stellan said. He looked at Nora, his expression unreadable. "Vance will be back tomorrow. Eat your lunch, Nora. You look like a ghost."
As the two men left the room, Nora rushed to the door, watching them walk down the long, red-carpeted hallway. She could hear their voices bouncing off the high ceiling.
"If the markers match, Stellan," Dr. Vance was saying, his voice faint but distinct, "this isn't just an internal matter. If the Barretts find out you have this information—"
May you like
"They won't find out until I’m ready to show them the ashes," Stellan replied.
Nora shut the door, her back pressing against the heavy wood as she slid down to the floor. The relief she had felt an hour ago was completely gone, replaced by a deep, instinctual terror. Stellan Cross hadn't taken her in because he felt sorry for a maid. He had taken her in because Wren wasn't just a baby to him—she was a weapon.
