Late autumn, early morning on a weekdaythe town still yawned, but tyres already crunched on the country road. Roman Chalin stood by the open gate, gripping the shoulders of a thin boy. The boys face was childlike, but his gaze was so mature it felt like a fist around Romans ribs.
“Whats your name?” Roman asked.
“Ethan,” the boy whispered. “I didnt mean to interfere… I just couldnt stay quiet.”
“If what you said is true, youve saved my life,” Roman replied flatly. “Come inside. Lets eat. Then well sort this out.”
The guards exchanged glancesthis wasnt protocol. But Roman wasnt just the owner of this estate; decisions were his to make. The kitchen smelled of fresh cheese scones and strong coffee. Ethan, seeing the plate, looked up for the first time that morningnot at the floor, but at the steam rising from the food. He ate delicately, as if afraid to offend the spoon.
Clara descended slowly, as usual, in a silk dressing gown, her bracelet chiming against porcelain, a polished smile on her lips.
“Youre early today, Roman.” She touched his arm, lingering a fraction longer than necessary. “Whos the boy?”
“He was at the gate. Hungry. I told them to feed him,” Roman said calmly. “Ill take him into town later.”
Clara nodded absently. No surprise or irritation flickered in her eyes. Too calm. Roman sensed something false in her poise, as if even the shadows here knew where theyd fall before they did.
She didnt argue. Ten minutes later, he was in the garageno noise, no scene. Paul pointed to the distant cap, the foreign marks left by spanners, the barely noticeable slit in the rubber hose.
“Not perfect, but not a complete botch,” Paul muttered. “Someone read the manual.”
“Cameras?” Roman cut in.
“Yesterday, as luck would have it, the system glitched for an hour. Just vanished.”
Roman clenched his teeth. The system hed installed failed exactly when needed. Too precise to be coincidence.
That evening, Detective Sawyera private investigator Roman had met while vetting business partners, not spouseswas on the phone. His voice was hoarse, his tone dry.
“So,” Roman said slowly, sitting in his car at the edge of the car park, phone in hand, “the garage camera mysteriously fails for an hour. Brakes are tampered with. The boy saw a woman. My wife was asleep. I need phone logs, routes, arrivals, departures. Fast.”
“How fast is fast?” Sawyer asked.
“Before she realises I know.”
“Right. No heroicsjust facts.”
Roman hung up and stared into the gardens darkness. Scenes from recent months flickered: Claras request to update the will”you never know, with all your travel”; her new fitness clubs where she went without a gym bag; hushed balcony calls where shed say, “Not now,” covering the phone. Hed blamed marital fatigue. Now, every word sounded like target practice.
Ethan slept curled on the office sofa like a cat. Roman draped a blanket over him and caught himself thinking something uncharacteristically soft: *What if he hadnt been there?*
“Uncle Roman,” the boy rasped, propping himself up, “will they kick me out tomorrow? Im not a thief. It was just… cold in the garage. Warmer here.”
“No ones kicking you out,” Roman said firmly. “Tomorrow, well sort things in town. For now, you stay. Understood?”
Ethan nodded. As he drifted off, he mumbled into the pillow, “Thanks.”
Roman stood by the window, listening to the houses nighttime murmurs: a curtain shifting, the AC sighing. Suddenly, he realised he hadnt felt this simple truth in yearsthat in the sentence *”I am home,”* the words *”I”* and *”home”* didnt contradict each other.
Sawyers report arrived three days laterterse and icy. Call logs. Screenshots of texts, lifted from a forgotten tablet. Claras itinerary: late-night visits, hotel-bar meetings with a man Roman knew wellLeo Lennox, shaved head, unnervingly white teeth, a longtime rival whod tried poaching Romans top manager six months prior, and before that, muscling him out of an elite property deal.
*”Tomorrow, itll look like an accident,”* read one voice memo Sawyer had miraculously salvaged from the cloud. Claras voice, unmistakable. Roman listened, gripping the tables edge to keep from hurling the tablet.
“Its time,” he said into the phone. “Do it clean. No theatrics. I want evidence, a paper trail, and cuffson someone elses wrists, not mine.”
“Understood, sir,” Sawyer replied.
The plan was simple: Roman would unexpectedly leave on business; the Mercedes would stay in the shop for diagnostics. No one would question itfor the wealthy, everything was always temporary. In the garage, Sawyer installed extra cameras, invisible even to those who might accidentally disable systems. Security was briefed: stay quiet, dont intervene without orders.
That evening, Clara pecked Romans cheek. “Dont be late. When youre back, well discuss the holiday. Id love the coast.”
“Well talk,” Roman nodded. Somehow, that word cost him.
No one slept that night. At 2 a.m., gravel crackled near the garage. A shadow moved across the camerassmooth, practiced. Hood up. Gloved fingers. A torch, shielded with red film. The figure unscrewed the brake-fluid cap, hesitated, thenfrom the darknessa second silhouette emerged.
“Leo, this isnt about money,” Clara whispered. “Hes… hes still a stranger. You know that.”
“Hurry,” Leo hissed. “Dawns coming.”
That sentence was enough. From then, jealousy wasnt the driving forcejust protocol. Ten minutes later, the garage blazed with light; fifteen minutes after that, it swarmed with people: the duty detective, two witnesses, and solicitor Cyril with prepped documents. Clara stood ice-calm, only the pulse at her temple betraying her.
“This is a mistake!” Her voice was flawless. “Youre all mad. I came to see why we reek of chemicals.”
“That chemical smell is brake fluid,” the detective said. “And this is footage of you and Mr. Lennox draining it. The rest is at the station. Lets go.”
Roman didnt meet her. He stayed on the second-floor stairs, listening to the distant click of heelsstill as composed as the day theyd met. How odd, he thought: sometimes a house isnt cleaned of dust, but of liesand suddenly, the air feels lighter.
For 24 hours post-arrest, he was numb. News reports were dry, reducing everything to legal jargon. Ethan wandered the house silently, helping the cook peel potatoes and pestering Paul about cars.
That evening, Roman sat opposite the boy in the kitchen:
“Listen, Ethan. I might not say this right… but I want you to stay. Not as a guest. As… a son.”
Ethan dropped his fork.
“A son? Im… Im nobody.”
“Youre a man,” Roman said, painfully recalling Clara once calling him nobody over a delayed flight. “And youre my rescuer. If youre willing, lets try. No rush, no pressure. Properly.”
The boy covered his eyes. When he looked up, tears gleamed.
“Okay, Dad.”
The word *”Dad”* hit Roman like warmth he hadnt felt since school. He nodded, trusting his voice less than the hug he gave the boy.
Morning brought paperwork. Cyril, ever impeccable:
“First, guardianship. Temporary forms, then adoption. Well fill in Ethans gaps. School starts tomorrow. Sportswhatever he fancies. And Roman…” He looked up. “Glad you chose life over revenge.”
“Didnt expect it either,” Roman admitted. “But brakes are sharper now.”
They smiledfor the first time in days, not politely, but properly.
Claras case was simpler than hed feared. The footage, metadata, texts, and Leos ties painted a clear picture. She stayed poised, even smiling once at the cameralike someone used to the world owing her. Leo tried renaming their ties, but in court, two plus two still made four.
The trial wasnt quick, but it was smooth. Roman didnt grandstandfacts spoke. In the corridors, people eyed him with curiosity, sympathy, admiration. He walked past like an ad that knew nothing about him.
Meanwhile, Ethan settled in. A star chart and pull-up bar appeared in his room. Textbooks littered his desk, unearthed like treasure.
