Nathaniel Hawthorne felt it before he even opened his eyes. The air carried a quiet tension, subtle but undeniable. He rose earlier than usual, a tight knot of unease settled beneath his ribs.
Routine had always grounded him, so he moved through it carefully—shirt, tie, cufflinks, coffee in hand—small rituals meant to steady the day.
He made his way to the east wing. His footsteps echoed softly across the marble floors. The house was silent, broken only by a faint metallic click. It was sharp, out of place. Nathaniel stopped at his office door.
It was open.
He never left it open.
He pushed the door wider, and the world narrowed instantly.
At his desk sat Elena Brooks, one of the housemaids. She wore her usual black uniform, but her hair, normally pinned tight, hung loose around her pale face. Her hands hovered above neat stacks of cash arranged across the desk.
The safe behind her stood wide open. Papers were scattered everywhere—some bearing his signature, others clearly forged. The room smelled of dust and panic.
“What are you doing?” Nathaniel demanded, his voice low and sharp. “Why is my safe open? Why are you touching my money?”