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.

as a sheet, dropping to her knees

was at a loss. Even if Clara was just a guest, sticking her in

out of line. Was this maid

smooth things over. "Young Master,

Dylan's eyes never left the

of his silence,

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

mistaking it—she was being

Fergusons for nearly thirty

up!" she pleaded. How could he throw her out

He just turned his wheelchair and headed for the end

scrambled to

Mrs. Ferguson spent nearly all her time praying in

wants to throw me out because of Clara. I've worked here

kneeling on a cushion, hands folded in prayer. At the maid's words, her brow tightened. With help, she rose and stepped outside, where the maid was kneeling in the hall, tears streaming down

because Clara didn't like the room, Young Master wants me gone. Mrs. Ferguson, forgive me, but he

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