When he left the office, Alex felt the mansion pulsing with a new kind of nervous energy, as if every wall had caught the rumor of the scandal and was now echoing back the disarray of the Grant family.
He paused in the corridor, taking a deep breath. The sun was already setting through the windows, gilding the marble floors and stretching shadows along the carpets. He needed to make sure Sophie would stay. He couldn't lose the key piece of his game now.
At the end of the corridor, he found the imposing Madame Bernadette, her entire figure like a living art deco sculpture. She was the housekeeper — fine features, impeccable manners, French by birth and by discipline, forever wrapped in a scent of lavender and the City of Light. She was checking the arrangement of trays in the pantry, seemingly immune to the chaos filling the mansion.
"Madame Bernadette," Alex called, his voice gentle but laced with urgency.
She turned, offering a slight nod.
"Yes, monsieur Grant?"
"I need you to look after Miss Flora. Bring her some tea, see if she needs medicine, anything that might ease her discomfort. Give her every assistance she may require, please."
Madame Bernadette nodded without hesitation.
"Of course, monsieur. I shall see to it that the staff provides the young lady with everything she needs. Perhaps a mild sedative, if she is feeling anxious?"
"Do that. Thank you."
Alex dismissed the housekeeper, who was already moving away, when he had a sudden thought: he needed to send a message to dissuade Sophie from leaving. But he had left his cell phone somewhere in the garden and couldn't remember where. Feeling Madame Bernadette still nearby, he called out:
"Yes, monsieur Grant?" she answered promptly.
"Could you lend me a pen and some paper? I need to leave a note for Miss Sanders, and I don't have my phone with me."
Madame Bernadette promptly produced a small notepad and a golden pen from the pocket of her apron — Madame Bernadette was never unprepared — and handed them to Alex. He leaned against the sideboard and wrote quickly, his handwriting neat and steady.
Folding the paper, he handed it to the housekeeper, looking into her eyes.
"Please, give this to Miss Sanders personally. And again, make sure the staff treats her well. I don't want her to lack for anything."
"Yes, monsieur. I will see to it right away."
She disappeared down the hallway, her light steps accompanied by murmured instructions in French: "Un peu de thé, de la camomille... Et pas de bruit dans ce couloir!"
Alex lingered there a moment, feeling the strange weight of responsibility for someone who, until days ago, had been nothing more than a piece in his plan.
He swallowed his discomfort, composed his face, and descended the stairs to the garden, where the party had resumed its illusion of normality; a delicate charade made of smiles, toasts, and whispered comments behind fans and crystal glasses.
Veronica, elegantly recomposed, was talking to the Davenports — Eloise's parents — under a pergola decorated with white flowers. Daniel sat next to his fiancée, his shoulders tense and his expression closed, replying to Eloise with curt monosyllables, as if everything, even silence, annoyed him.
Alex slid among the guests, wearing that easy smile that cost him so much. He approached the group and, simulating intimacy, gently wrapped his arm around Veronica's waist. She froze for a second but soon forced a smile, well-trained in the art of maintaining the appearance of a "perfect couple."
Mr. Davenport, a robust man with dark skin (often mistaken for Latino, but actually of Indigenous descent), commented, laughing:
"What an exciting evening, my friend! I don't think anyone came prepared for this much drama at a charity party…"
Mrs. Davenport, with her pearl necklace and shrewd eyes, leaned in, smiling:
"A lost daughter, shocking revelations, even a fainting spell! Now that's what I call a surprising afternoon."
Alex replied, glancing sideways at Veronica:
"My life has always been full of surprises, Mr. Davenport. But I can assure you, Veronica and I are strong enough to face anything ahead. Aren't we, dear?"
Veronica smiled, a translucent smile without warmth, her eyes steely:
"Of course, darling. Together, even in the face of betrayal exposed to everyone."
Still with his hand at her waist, Alex noticed the heavy mood hanging over the younger couple. Daniel stared off into the distance, tense, playing with his ring; Eloise, in a blue dress, seemed lost, searching for an explanation for her fiancé's sudden ill humor.
Eloise spoke up, nervous, her tone slightly too sharp:
"Daniel's been like this ever since the news… Since he found out he has a sister. He's acting really strange, Alex. You know how he is with surprises, especially when they come out of nowhere!"
Alex turned to Daniel, his gaze sharp:
"So, son? Aren't you happy to have a sister? When you were a kid, you always begged for a little brother or sister."
Daniel raised his face, his jaw tight.
"That woman can't be my sister." His tone was dry, cold. "I don't believe this story one bit and I'm not in the mood to put up with this circus."
Veronica caught the subtext, gripping her glass harder than necessary.
Then Daniel put his glass down on the table and left without excuses or explanations, his steps quick as he headed into the house. Eloise tried to follow but hesitated, looking at her parents and then at Veronica, as if waiting for guidance.
Veronica didn't hesitate. She set her glass down, excused herself to the Davenports, and walked after her son with determined steps. The garden breathed again, but the evening had changed temperature: there was no more party, only the sharp edges of a truth waiting to be revealed.
Alex remained there, feigning tranquility, but inside, something throbbed; a new fear of losing control over the opera he himself had orchestrated.