THE TRILLIONAIRE'S WRATH: RISE OF THE FALLEN SON-IN-LAW

CHAPTER 007: The Silent Sister

The heavy iron gates of the Osbourne estate groaned open, swallowing the black SUV that carried Tamia. She sat in the back seat, her small hands clutching the hem of her thin maid’s uniform. Her knuckles were blue from the cold, and her eyes were wide with a terror that went bone-deep.

To the Hastings, she had been a piece of furniture. To the "Ghost Chairman," she was a payment.

"Please," she whispered to the driver, her voice trembling. "What did I do wrong? I'll work harder. I'll scrub the floors twice. Just don't let him hurt me."

The driver didn't answer. He simply stopped the car in front of the massive stone stairs of the mansion. Two maids in crisp white uniforms opened her door. They didn't treat her like a servant; they treated her like she was made of glass.

"This way, Miss," one of them said softly.

Tamia stumbled as they led her inside. The house was vast, filled with the scent of fresh rain and expensive wax. She expected to be taken to a basement or a laundry room. Instead, they led her to a suite with silk curtains and a bed that looked softer than a cloud.

"Wash up and eat," the maid said, pointing to a table laden with hot soup, fresh bread, and fruit. "The Chairman will speak with you soon."

Tamia didn't eat. She huddled in the corner of the room, staring at the door. What kind of monster buys a person? she thought. Bernadette said he was a powerful man. She said I was lucky he wanted me. But men like this... they don't want luck. They want victims.

An hour later, the lights in the room dimmed. A large folding screen was placed in the center of the room. A lamp flickered on behind it, casting a tall, broad shadow of a man against the silk fabric.

"Sit down, Tamia," a voice said. It was deep, like the rumble of distant thunder, but it wasn't cruel.

Tamia stayed on the floor. "Please, sir. I’m just a maid. I don’t know why I’m here. If you want someone to clean, I can do that, but please... don’t touch me."

There was a long silence from behind the screen. Thiago sat in the dark, his heart breaking at the sound of his sister’s voice. He wanted to run to her. He wanted to pull her into his arms and tell her that her brother was back. But he knew she would scream. To her, he was a murderer.

"I didn't bring you here to clean," Thiago said, his voice straining to stay calm. "You will never scrub another floor as long as you live. You will sleep in that bed. You will eat that food. And you will be safe."

"Why?" she sobbed. "Nobody does anything for free. What do you want from me?"

"I want you to get better," Thiago said. "That is all."

******

Later that night, Thiago stood in his study, staring at a medical report. Stephen stood by the door, a doctor in a white coat beside him.

"Well?" Thiago asked, his voice sharp.

"It’s worse than we thought, Chairman," the doctor said, shaking his head. "I examined her while she was sleeping. Her physical health is poor, but it’s her brain chemistry that concerns me."

Thiago looked up, his eyes cold. "Explain."

"She isn't just suffering from shock," the doctor said. "I found traces of a heavy sedative in her blood. It’s a specific drug used in experimental clinics. It’s a memory suppressant. If given in small doses over a long time, it makes the mind foggy. It makes it easy to rewrite a person’s history."

Thiago slammed his fist onto the table. "Bernadette. She didn't just tell Tamia lies. She drugged her so she couldn't remember the truth."

"It’s why she hates you, sir," Stephen whispered. "She doesn't see her brother. She sees the monster the drugs told her you were."

"Can it be reversed?" Thiago asked the doctor.

"Perhaps. But it will take time. We have to flush her system and give her a reason to want to remember."

The doctor bowed and left. Thiago stood alone, the silence of the house pressing in on him. They stole her mind, he thought. They turned my own blood against me with chemicals. There is no hole deep enough for Henry McHampton.

A soft knock came at the door. An older maid named Martha entered, holding a small bundle of gray cloth.

"Sir? I was told to burn the girl’s old clothes," Martha said, her voice hesitant. "But I found something you might want to see."

Thiago turned. "What is it?"

"It was sewn into a hidden pocket in her apron," Martha said. She held out a small, crumpled book.

Thiago took it. It was a cheap, cardboard nursery rhyme book, the kind sold in grocery stores. The edges were chewed and the cover was stained with old tears.

He flipped it over. On the back cover, his breath stopped.

There, stamped in bright blue ink, was the tiny handprint of a baby. It was no larger than a silver dollar. Below the handprint, someone had scrawled a date in messy ink.

It was a date five months after Thiago had been sent to prison.

Thiago’s hand shook as he touched the blue ink. "She was holding onto this," he whispered. "In a house where they treated her like a dog, she hid this."

"There's a note inside the front cover, sir," Martha added.

Thiago opened the book. In his sister's shaky handwriting, it read: Don't let them take him.

Thiago looked at the tiny handprint again. This wasn't just a book. It was a map.

"Stephen!" Thiago roared, the sound echoing through the halls. "Get Melanie on the phone. Now!"