Clara's face was pale, her hand gripping the edge of the bed so hard it looked like she might snap the wood in two.

When Dylan made his way up from downstairs, it was already close to eleven. The plans for the birthday banquet were finally settled. Thinking of Clara waiting for him in his room, he couldn't help but smile a little as he pushed open the door to his suite.

He hadn't stayed overnight at the old house in ages, and honestly, he never liked it much. Too many memories he'd rather leave buried.

He wheeled himself inside, rounded the corner-and stopped. The bed was empty.

His brows furrowed. Maybe she was just restless, wandering around. She was young, after all.

He called for the butler, his voice calm but clipped. "Where is she?"

The butler looked just as confused-he'd only just come up himself. Quickly, he went to ask the maid.

The maid didn't seem the least bit flustered. "No one told me there were special arrangements, so I put her in the last room at the end of the hall."

Dylan's eyes went cold. That's the storage room.

He fixed the maid with a glare that could cut glass.

a sheet, dropping to her knees without

Clara was

Was this maid

"Young Master, let's check on her

never

his silence, head

long, tense moment, Dylan finally said, voice like ice, "Pack your things. You're done

no mistaking it—she was being kicked out of

stared at him in shock. She'd been with the Fergusons for nearly thirty years, knew everyone, had always felt like part

pleaded. How could he throw her out over a girl who barely belonged

wheelchair and headed for the

the maid scrambled to find

nearly all her time praying in the

you have to help me! Young Master wants to throw me out because of Clara. I've worked here thirty years. Even if

brow tightened. With help, she rose and stepped outside, where the maid

like the room, Young Master wants me gone. Mrs. Ferguson, forgive me, but he cares too much for her. How will

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