Chapter 8 - The Whitmore NameThe police did not come through the front entrance.
Alexander made sure of that.
He had spent his life protecting the Whitmore name from scandal, but that morning, he protected Grace from spectacle instead.
Eleanor was questioned in the library.
Mrs. Hale confessed in the breakfast room.
Victoria packed a suitcase before anyone accused her of anything.
That alone told Alexander she had something to hide.
Grace tried to resign.
He found her in the service corridor folding her uniforms with shaking hands.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
She did not look up. “Anywhere that is not here.”
“You did nothing wrong.”
“That has never saved anyone in a house like this.”
Alexander had no answer.
Grace placed the black uniform into a small bag. “Your daughters need doctors, specialists, a proper therapist. They do not need the woman your family just accused of theft.”
“Iris needs you.”
Grace’s hands stopped.
“And Clara,” he added. “And I think you know that.”
Grace turned, eyes wet. “Do not say that because you feel guilty.”
“I do feel guilty.”
“Then feel it. Do not turn it into a job offer.”
That silenced him.
For the first time in years, someone spoke to him not as a billionaire, not as a Whitmore, not as a man whose grief made him untouchable.
Just a man who had failed.
Alexander nodded slowly.
“You are right.”
Grace looked surprised.
He took a breath. “Then stay tonight for them. Tomorrow, you decide for yourself.”
Grace looked toward the nursery.
Upstairs, Iris was laughing.
The sound did what Alexander’s money could not.
It broke her.
“One night,” she said.
But when she reached for her bag, Alexander noticed blood on her wrist.
Not fresh.
Old bruises.
Finger marks.
“Who did that?”
Grace pulled her sleeve down.
“No one who matters.”
Alexander stepped closer.
“Grace.”
May you like
She looked at him with a fear deeper than the bracelet, deeper than losing her job.
“Lady Eleanor was not the only person who wanted me gone.”
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