Lorraine stayed by the terrace railing. Down below, Marcus and Simone turned into the east wing corridor, their figures visible through the tall windows at broken intervals. Lorraine set her tablet face-down on the stone bench without a glance and kept her eyes on them.
Simone’s mouth was moving as she gestured toward the suite doors. “These corner rooms get the absolute best morning light,” Simone said, her voice carrying faintly through the open breezeway. “Ten-foot ceilings, imported Italian drapery, and the thread count on the linens is absurd. Only the very best for our guests, of course.”
“Naturally,” Marcus replied smoothly. He walked beside her, unhurried, nodding along with her speech. “The proportions are impressive.”
Then he stopped. Simone kept walking, already turning toward the next doorway while she kept up her commentary. “Wait until you see the bath fixtures, Marcus. The marble alone took three months to source.”
Marcus remained by the second window from the corridor’s east end. He lifted his phone, tilted the screen toward the window frame, and snapped a photograph.
There it is.
Lorraine’s pulse jumped. She did not write anything down; she simply tracked him as he stepped to the next window to repeat the exact sequence. Pause, adjust the angle, take the picture.
Simone circled back, waving a hand. “You’re awfully quiet over there! Don’t tell me the woodwork is stealing my spotlight.”
“Not at all,” Marcus said, smiling faintly without glancing up from the glass. “I appreciate good craftsmanship. It pays to notice the details.”
“Well, don’t linger too long,” Simone teased, offering that bright, easy laugh she used whenever she wanted someone to feel comfortable. “We have three more suites to cover before the florist arrives in ten minutes.”
“Take your time,” Marcus murmured. “I’m right behind you.”
He was not choosing a suite; he was documenting the layout. The pauses were too deliberate, and the angles were far too precise.
Lorraine calculated the schedule. The florist was due in forty minutes. Simone believed it was ten, a small lie that had bought Lorraine the buffer she needed, but that window was closing fast. She could walk inside right now, cut the tour short, and force Marcus to defend his cover under direct scrutiny.
Or she could wait.
Patience. You never challenge an inflated invoice the second it appears; you wait until every piece of paper is in your hands.
Marcus moved to the third window. He captured the upper frame, crouched low, and photographed the sill. Further down the hall, Simone drifted ahead, utterly lost in her performance.
She has no idea.
Marcus straightened, slipped the phone into his pocket, and made a quick remark that drew another loud chuckle from Simone. Then he turned. He did not look at her, and he did not check the corridor. He tilted his head back and looked straight up at the terrace, fixing his eyes on Lorraine.
She held his stare through the afternoon glass. He did not flinch, and he had known she was standing there the entire time.Simone caught the silence first.
“You’ve gone quiet on me,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder. “Don’t tell me you’re already bored.”
Marcus slipped his phone into his jacket pocket with smooth, unhurried ease. “Not even slightly,” he said. “I was just thinking about the proportions. These corridors are something else.”
Simone’s expression shifted, relief quickly disguised as pleasure. “Right? The east wing gets completely overlooked during tours. Everyone rushes straight to the ballroom.” She fell back into step beside him, her voice picking up speed. “Now, I was thinking we put you in the Westbury room. It’s tucked away, very private, gorgeous garden view. You’ll barely hear anyone.”
Tucked away; barely hear anyone. She wanted him buried.
“That sounds considerate,” Marcus said, letting a beat pass. “Which direction does it face?”
“West, obviously. Hence the name.” She laughed, a little too quickly. “Morning sun is overrated anyway...”
“I disagree,” he said warmly, as if he simply had a plain preference. “I’m useless until I’ve had proper morning light. Bad habit.” He paused at the door marked 4E, two doors down from the corner, and tried the handle. “What about this one?”
Simone’s smile turned rigid. “That’s practically on top of the family wing. Mother wanders these halls at six in the morning, Marcus. You don’t want that.”
“I don’t mind early risers.” He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The room was generous, boasting high ceilings, pale walls, and a wide window that looked directly across the estate’s east grounds. He could see the outbuilding roof from here, the low garden wall, and the angle of the path that cut behind the orangery. Every coordinate he needed was right there through a single pane of glass; the vantage point was flawless.
“The light is perfect,” he said.
Simone hovered in the doorway, clearly uneasy. “It’s really not the most comfortable suite for a guest.”
“It’s exactly what I’d choose.” He turned back to her with an easy smile. “Closer to you, closer to the preparations. I want to be useful this weekend, not decorative.”
That landed. He watched her exhale, and her doubt melted into visible relief. She was desperate to believe him, and that gullibility made everything easier.
“All right,” she said. “If you’re sure...”
“Completely.”
She stayed for another two minutes, talking about towel warmers and the breakfast schedule. Marcus listened, nodded, and asked one question about the florist’s timeline that made her laugh. Then she hurried away, heels clicking down the corridor while she reached into her bag for her phone.
He closed the door firmly.
The room went completely still. He crossed to the window in four quick steps and stood close to the glass; his eyes mapped the grounds below, fixing on the outbuilding, the gravel path, and the exact distance between the garden wall and the east wing door.
He had what he came for.Lorraine left the terrace without hurrying. She walked back through the side corridor, past the linen cupboard, and entered her office at the east end of the ground floor. The room was quiet. She closed the door firmly behind her, crossed to the filing cabinet in the corner, and unlocked it with her small brass key.
The folder sat exactly where she had left it.
She carried it over to her desk and flipped it open. Marcus Reeves. The name was printed at the top of the first page in her own neat handwriting. Two years ago, he had filed a property claim against the Hayes estate’s eastern boundary. She had intercepted the solicitor’s letter back then, burying the matter before anyone brought it up at Sunday dinner.
A penciled line still marked the critical paragraph. The claim had listed a third party, and that third party was Marcus Reeves.
This is no coincidence, she thought. It never is.
He had returned, and he had used Simone to do it. Is he clever, or just that desperate? Probably both. Simone was the easiest entry point into the household; she was warm, absentminded, and always believed her problems would sort themselves out before anyone noticed.
Lorraine leaned forward and dialed the estate intercom on her desk phone. The line clicked as her assistant answered.
“Yes, Lorraine?”
“Give me the exact schedule for the front drive,” Lorraine said. “Has the delivery arrived yet?”
“The florist will be here in twenty-five minutes,” the assistant replied. “Do you want me to send them straight around to the main hall?”
“Yes. The moment those vans arrive, the ground floor will turn into a circus.” Lorraine kept her voice flat. “Is Simone still down there?”
“She is in the foyer right now, checking the ribbon samples.”
“Keep her occupied until the delivery truck pulls in.”
“Understood. Did you need anything else before they start unloading?”
“No. That gives me enough time; just make sure nobody disturbs the east wing corridors.”
Lorraine hung up the receiver.
She could march upstairs right now and knock on the door to suite 4E. She could throw the file onto his bed and watch his face fall, but an immediate confrontation would not solve anything. If she forced him to react before she uncovered his actual goal, he would simply pull back and try again; he had abandoned his boundary claim two years ago the moment she started digging.
Wait, she told herself. Let him finish what he started.
The photographs he had taken in the corridor were only one part of the puzzle. The suite directly above the path was another. She needed the full picture before she moved against him. Marcus had less than half an hour before the corridors filled with caterers, guests, and floral arrangements.
She closed the file, slid it back into the drawer, and locked the cabinet.
Lorraine stepped to the window. Through the glass, she had a clear line of sight to the east wing. A shadow shifted on the upper floor: Marcus stood against the glass with his phone raised to the frame. He snapped a photo, lowered his hands, and turned his head. His eyes locked onto hers across the open lawn.
He looked directly at her.
She did not flinch, and she did not step back.