CHAPTER 10:- A CITY OF SECRETS

A flicker of curiosity sparked within Amelia as the three male servants, their crisp white uniforms a stark contrast to the worn wooden floorboards, bustled around her. One by one, they deposited leather-bound volumes onto the ornately carved study table in her room. The names stamped in gold on the spines were a veritable who's who of literature: Shakespeare, Austen, Woolf – giants whose words had shaped entire worlds.

But the air in the room felt heavy, suffocating. The books, intended as a gesture of solace perhaps, struck Amelia as a gilded cage of their own. A bitter chuckle escaped her lips. "Just what kind of needs did your esteemed employer think the girls who came before me had?" she questioned, her voice laced with a sharp edge.

The two maids, young women with faces etched with a weariness that belied their years, exchanged a nervous glance. One, a brunette with hesitant eyes, finally dared to speak. "With all due respect, ma'am," she began, her voice barely a whisper, "you are the first lady Sir Thorne has brought here. He's not a man who mistreats women. He… he even saved me from being sold to a gang." Her voice faltered, a flicker of fear replacing the initial defiance.

Before she could continue, the door creaked open, and Edgar, the ever-present butler, glided into the room. His silver hair gleamed in the afternoon sun that slanted through the window, casting long shadows across the study's cluttered surface. A faint disapproval flickered in his pale blue eyes as they took in the scene – the scattered books, the apprehensive maids, and Amelia, a storm brewing within her vibrant blue eyes.

"Is everything satisfactory, Miss Harris?" Edgar inquired, his voice a soothing balm amidst the rising tension. He inclined his head towards the books on the table, his mouth quirking ever so slightly at the corners. "Perhaps a more modern selection would be of interest? Mr. Thorne has expressed a desire to cater to your… specific preferences."

Amelia's lips thinned into a tight line. Was this some kind of twisted game? A way to test her, gauge her reactions? "My… preferences," she repeated, each word dripping with icy sarcasm. "Tell Mr. Thorne I appreciate the… library," she said, gesturing towards the books with a sardonic smile. "But perhaps a change of scenery would be more to my liking. Fresh air, maybe a walk in the gardens?"

A flicker of something akin to surprise crossed Edgar's face before it was schooled back into his usual mask of impassivity. "Of course, Miss Harris," he said, bowing slightly. "I shall inform Mr. Thorne of your request."

With that, he turned and exited the room, leaving Amelia alone with the two maids. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment, a silent exchange passing between them. In that shared look, Amelia glimpsed a flicker of something more – a hint of sympathy, perhaps even a touch of camaraderie. Maybe, just maybe, this gilded cage wasn't entirely devoid of human connection.

•~•

The fluorescent lights of the police station buzzed with an oppressive hum, their sickly yellow glow reflecting off the worn linoleum floor. John Harris, his face etched with worry lines deeper than any his fifty years should have carved, sat hunched across from Deputy Commissioner Evans. The air hung thick with the stale aroma of burnt coffee and an unspoken fear that gnawed at John's insides like a ravenous beast.

Days had bled into a feverish blur since Amelia's disappearance. Sleep had become a distant memory, replaced by a relentless torrent of worry and a gnawing sense of helplessness. Now, seated across from Evans, a man whose perpetually tired expression offered little comfort, John felt a flicker of desperate hope ignite within him. Maybe, just maybe, the police actually had a lead.

He cleared his throat, his voice hoarse from disuse. "You're telling me," he began, each word a labored effort, "that my daughter, Amelia, has been taken by some… high-ranking individual?" The question hung in the air, heavy with disbelief and a tremor of rising anger.

Evans, a portly man whose girth seemed at odds with his weary demeanor, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He leaned forward, his hand hovering over a file on the desk for a beat too long before finally steepling his fingers. "Mr. Harris," he said, his voice a smooth syrup that did little to soothe the churning in John's stomach, "your brother, bless his heart, dealt with… local yokels. We, on the other hand, deal with a different breed here." He paused, the silence stretching until John felt like he was suffocating.

"Men of influence," Evans continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "power. Men who… own this city." John gritted his teeth, a surge of fury battling with the cold tendrils of dread that coiled around his heart.

He slammed his fist on the table, the sound echoing through the sterile room like a gunshot. "Influence?" he roared, his voice raw with emotion. "You mean they kidnap girls with impunity? Who is this man? Where is my daughter?"

Evans' carefully constructed facade flickered for a moment. A flicker of something akin to pity crossed his features, quickly masked by a practiced professionalism. "Let's just say," he began, his voice dropping to a low murmur, "your daughter is a guest, not a captive. A valuable guest, at that."

John's anger, a simmering cauldron, boiled over. "Guest?" he spat, the word laced with disgust. "She's my daughter, not some pawn in some twisted game!" He reached into his pocket, pulling out a wad of cash, the crumpled bills a desperate gamble. He shoved it across the table towards Evans, the movement jerky and fueled by a potent mix of fear and defiance. "Then let her be a damn guest at my house! Take this, whatever it takes. Just get her back."

Evans' smile, once practiced and charming, vanished entirely. In its place, a steely glint hardened his eyes. His hand brushed the money dismissively, the movement a cold dismissal. "Mr. Harris," he growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "you misunderstand. There are forces at play here far beyond your comprehension. This isn't about money. It's about power. And believe me," he leaned forward, his eyes boring into John's with an intensity that sent chills down John's spine, "your daughter is safer there than she's ever been here."