Chapter 5 - The Forbidden Threshold
"Brooke! Move!" Arthur shouted as he reached the top of the stairs, his voice booming with a panic Sarah had never heard before.
But the little girl was paralyzed. The large, panicked dog was sprinting straight toward her, its claws scratching wildly against the polished hardwood. Barnaby wasn't aggressive, but in his blind terror, he was a ninety-pound threat to a fragile five-year-old.
Sarah didn't think. She threw her cleaning bucket aside, water splashing across the floor, and launched herself forward. She slid across the wet floor, scooping Brooke into her arms and twisting her body to shield the child just as Barnaby collided with them.
The impact sent Sarah crashing into the forbidden mahogany door of the west wing studio.
The ancient latch gave way under their combined weight. With a loud CRACK, the door swung wide open, and Sarah, Brooke, and the dog tumbled backward into the darkness of the forbidden room.
Silence fell over the hallway.
Arthur stood at the threshold, his face pale as paper, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The guests below were oblivious, the music still drifting up the stairs, but on the third floor, time had stopped.
Sarah groaned, her shoulder aching from the impact, but her arms remained tightly wrapped around Brooke. "Are you okay?" she whispered anxiously into the girl's hair.
Brooke didn't cry. Instead, she slowly let go of Sarah's uniform and looked around the room.
The clouds outside parted, allowing the moonlight to flood through a massive skylight. The room wasn't a dark dungeon; it was a beautiful, frozen time capsule. Canvases lined the walls, covered in vibrant, colorful paintings of landscapes, flowers, and most strikingly, portraits of a smiling Brooke. In the center of the room stood an unfinished painting of the three of them—Arthur, his wife, and their daughter—laughing on a beach.
Barnaby had stopped running. He was whimpering softly, burying his head into Brooke's lap.
Arthur stepped into the room, his boots heavy against the floorboards. His eyes were fixed on the unfinished beach painting, and for the first time, Sarah saw tears welling in the severe man's eyes.
"Get out," Arthur whispered, his voice cracking.
Sarah began to scramble to her feet, pulling Brooke with her, assuming he was firing her. "Mr. Whitmore, I am so sorry, the dog was—"
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"Not you," Arthur interrupted, his gaze dropping to his daughter. He looked at Brooke, then at Sarah, who was holding his daughter's hand. He saw the neat French braid Sarah had woven into Brooke's hair. He saw the way Brooke clung to Sarah's side, looking for protection she had never received from him.
"Leave us," Arthur said softly, looking at Sarah. "Please."
