The grand foyer held its breath until Lorenzo Moretti’s heavy footsteps faded down the east wing gallery. The moment the double mahogany doors of his private study snapped shut with a dull, echoing thud, the deferential warmth melted from Mrs. Gable’s face like cheap grease over high heat.

She turned on her heel, her sharp jaw jutting forward, eyes scanning the row of uniformed servants like a drill sergeant hunting for insubordination. Her gaze landed on Nora, who stood with her head lowered, both hands cradling her protruding stomach beneath the coarse wool of her oversized uniform.

"You," Mrs. Gable hissed under her breath, storming down the line. "Why were your eyes darting toward the Master when he asked about the old man? Were you thinking of speaking out of turn, girl?"

"No, Mrs. Gable," Nora whispered, keeping her gaze pinned to the gleaming checkerboard marble. Her ankles were swollen, throbbing inside thin canvas flats. "I was only waiting for dismissal."

"You were looking for an opening," Mrs. Gable snarled, pinching the soft flesh of Nora’s upper arm with cruel, pinpoint precision. "Listen to me, you street-rat. If you so much as utter one squeak about what happens in Room 4B—if you dare embarrass this household in front of Mr. Moretti—I won't just fire you into the blizzard. I will call the sheriff, tell him you stole the silverware, and let you deliver that bastard child on the concrete floor of the county jail. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, ma'am," Nora gasped, tears stinging her eyes as the housekeeper's fingernails dug through her sleeve.

"Good. Now get down to the cold storage. The sous chef needs two sacks of russet potatoes hauled up to the banquet prep table. And don't use the freight elevator; the motor is vibrating and the Master demands total silence while he works."

Nora’s breath hitched. "Fifty-pound sacks? Up the stone steps? Mrs. Gable, please, I had spotting yesterday—"

"Then bleed faster so you don't slow down the kitchen," Mrs. Gable sneered, turning her back on the trembling girl. "Move!"

High above the foyer, partially concealed by the shadow of the second-floor mezzanine colonnade, a silhouette remained motionless. Lorenzo Moretti had not gone straight into his study. He stood by the balustrade, unbuttoning his waistcoat, watching the interaction below with cold, predatory stillness. His jaw ticked once, hard and deliberate, before he vanished silently into the corridors of his ancestral fortress.