Chapter 3 - Damian's Blindness
Damian looked down at Holland, whose small body was still trembling violently against his chest.
“Son, look at me,” Damian pleaded softly, desperate for any shred of reassurance.
“Did she put you down there? Was it Maria?”
Holland opened his mouth, his tongue feeling dry as dust, ready to tell his father about the dark passages and Celeste’s cold eyes.
Then he caught movement over his father’s shoulder.
Celeste stood by the bedroom door, her thumb slowly tracing the fresh cut on her palm where the crystal glass had broken.
Her expression was an unreadable mask of absolute warning.
Holland swallowed hard, the memory of his mother’s final night flashing across his terrified mind like a strobe light.
If he named Celeste, his father would die next.
“I... I don't remember,” Holland whispered, burying his face into his father’s tuxedo jacket.
Damian sighed, misinterpreting the boy's severe trauma for simple confusion.
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“It’s okay, son, you’re safe now,” Damian whispered, glaring down at the weeping maid with absolute disgust.
“Take her to the holding room downstairs,” Damian ordered the chief of security. “Call the police immediately.”
