Chapter 10 Secrets and reckoning

Chapter 10

Mrs. Whitmore sat at the head of the long glass table, her manicured fingers tapping lightly against its surface. The office smelled of polished wood and expensive cologne, a sharp contrast to the unease tightening her chest. The manager stood across from her, files spread out before him, his face pale in a way that immediately irritated her.

"Speak," she said coolly. "You sounded panicked on the phone."

He cleared his throat. "Ma'am... the situation is worse than we initially thought. Three major investors have already pulled out. Two more contracts were abandoned this morning without prior notice."

Her brows furrowed. "Abandoned? Just like that?"

"Yes," he replied. "No negotiations. No demands. They simply... walked away."

As if summoned by his words, his phone vibrated on the table.

He hesitated before picking it up. "Excuse me."

Mrs. Whitmore watched his expression change as he listened. His shoulders stiffened, his jaw tightening.

"Yes, sir... I understand your concerns, but perhaps we can renegotiate, Hello? Sir?"

The line went dead. He lowered the phone slowly.

"Another investor?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

He nodded grimly. "He's pulling out as well."

Silence fell heavily between them.

"At this rate," he continued carefully, "we may not be able to meet staff payroll by the end of the month."

Mrs. Whitmore leaned back in her chair, exhaling sharply. "Then sack some of them. Immediately. Reduce salaries for the rest. We can't bleed ourselves dry trying to be humane."

The manager nodded. "Understood."

She straightened. "And the investors, what's being done about them?"

He hesitated again. "That's the troubling part. It doesn't look natural. Someone is... influencing them. Pulling them away deliberately. We're still trying to identify who."

Her fingers curled slowly into her palm.

Someone. Her daughter's voice echoed in her mind. Maybe this is Ronan Frost.

Mrs. Whitmore swallowed. She forced a tight smile.

"Find out who it is. Quickly."

But inside, her thoughts were spiraling. Please don't let it be him, she prayed silently. Hasn't he done enough already?

If Ronan Frost truly had his eyes on the Whitmores' empire. Then this wasn't a crisis. It was the beginning of their end.

Ronan's Mansion

That morning, Adaline woke earlier than she was supposed to. Sleep had barely touched her. The memory of the night before clung to her like a shadow. The fear of making another mistake refused to let her rest any longer. She rose immediately and left her room without hesitation. In the kitchen, she worked silently, careful with every movement. She prepared a simple breakfast, nothing extravagant, just enough. Once it was done, she set the table neatly, arranging the dishes the way she had been shown.

Then she stood. Waiting. Minutes passed. When Ronan finally came downstairs, he didn't even spare the dining table a glance. His stride was brisk, his expression unreadable, as though his mind was already elsewhere. He walked straight past her and headed out the door. She watched him leave. For a long moment, she remained standing exactly where she was, unsure of what to do next. Only when the sound of the door closing echoed through the mansion did she move. She carried the plates back into the kitchen and began washing them quietly.

"Good morning, my dear."

Adaline flinched slightly and turned. Mrs. Margareta had entered, her presence calm as always.

"Good morning, ma'am," Adaline replied politely. Mrs. Margareta glanced at the untouched dishes. "He didn't take breakfast again, did he?"

Adaline nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Hm." Mrs. Margareta sighed softly. "After you're done here, come and help me with something."

Adaline hesitated. "Help you... with what?"

"I need someone who can crochet," Mrs. Margareta said gently. "Can you?"

"Yes, ma'am," Adaline answered quickly, then paused. "But I thought I wasn't allowed to do anything unless I was told to."

Mrs. Margareta smiled at her. "Do you enjoy staying in that room all by yourself every day?"

Adaline lowered her gaze. "No, ma'am. But I don't have a choice. I'm trying to avoid punishment."

Her voice was quiet, resigned. Mrs. Margareta's expression softened. "Ronan has already left. No one is going to punish you. Finish up here and then come meet me."

Adaline looked up, surprised. "Yes, ma'am," she said with a small nod.

She turned back to the sink immediately, her movements faster now, as though afraid the permission might disappear if she didn't hurry.

Ronan's company

Ronan sat at the head of the conference table, his attention fixed on the figures projected onto the glass wall.

"The Whitmore company is bleeding," the man across from him said carefully. "Their investors are pulling out faster than expected. Our plan worked.

Ronan said nothing. He knew that with his influence and power, it was just a matter of time before those investors pulled out. Another man spoke.

"Our contact inside their company just sent an update. Mrs. Whitmore came in this morning."

Ronan's eyes flickered briefly.

"So," he said calmly, leaning back in his chair, "she's finally noticed."

He let out a quiet breath, more amused than surprised. "It was only a matter of time."

"She seems to be trying to regain control," the man added.

Ronan nodded once. "Of course she would. Panic always comes late with people like her."

He straightened, his tone turning firm. "Send out an email to our board. I want an immediate meeting."

"Yes, sir."

Ronan's gaze returned to the figures on the screen, sharp and calculating.

"Let's see how long she can hold on," he murmured.

Back to Ronan's mansion

Adaline sat beside Mrs. Margareta, slender needles moving slowly between her fingers as soft yarn pooled neatly in her lap. The repetitive motion was strangely soothing, easing a tension she hadn't realized she'd been carrying all morning.They were knitting a scarf. Simple. Warm. Familiar.

"This is for Mr. Ronan," Mrs. Margareta said casually.

Adaline's hands froze mid-stitch.

"For... him?" she whispered, panic flaring instantly. "Then I shouldn't be touching it. If he finds out, he'll send me to the torture room."

Mrs. Margareta chuckled softly. "Don't be afraid. He won't know."

She continued knitting as though she hadn't just shaken Adaline to her core. "The maid who usually helps me is ill. You're only filling in. Consider yourself lucky."

Adaline swallowed and resumed, her fingers trembling slightly. After a moment, Mrs. Margareta spoke again, her voice quieter this time. "Ronan's mother loved knitting. She used to make these for him, scarves, sweaters, anything she could."

Adaline glanced at her.

"Whenever Ronan had nightmares," Mrs. Margareta continued, eyes distant, "he would run to her room in the middle of the night. She was his anchor."

Her hands slowed.

"That night, I wasn't there. I had gone home to attend to my younger son. If i hadn't...." She stopped herself and sighed. "Perhaps things would have been different."

Adaline listened in silence as Mrs. Margareta spoke of the hurt, loss, and a boy who had watched his world collapse in a single night. How grief hardened him. How anger became his shield. How power became his refuge. When she finished, the room felt heavier. Adaline finally understood. The hatred wasn't just cruelty. It was pain. It was resentment.

And I carry the blood of the man who caused it, she thought bitterly.

They returned to knitting in silence. After a while, Mrs. Margareta glanced at her. "You're good at this. Who taught you?"

"My mother," Adaline replied softly. "Before she died."

Mrs. Margareta nodded once, choosing not to ask more. Some losses don't need too much prying.

She set her needles down. "We've talked enough. Back to work."

Adaline nodded, her hands continuing their steady rhythm but her heart knew better now as to why Ronan acted the way he did.