It was the same broken whimper she had soothed countless nights from nine-year-old Oliver Whitmore—Charles’s son. For the past five days, Oliver had not slept in his bedroom. Victoria had sweetly explained to staff that he was spending time with relatives in Vermont “to bond properly” before she fully stepped into her role as stepmother.
Sofia had accepted it.
Until now.
The crying came again—soft, desperate.
Then silence.
A thick, unnatural silence.
Her heart pounded as her eyes drifted to a large baroque painting hanging awkwardly on the exposed brick wall of the service corridor. It had always seemed out of place—too ornate for such a narrow hall.
Driven by instinct, Sofia set down her tray.
She gripped the heavy gold frame and pushed.
It shifted.
Behind it wasn’t a wall.
It was a hidden door.
Cold air seeped through the crack.
Inside the dark space, curled into himself, was Oliver.
His face was streaked with dried tears. His clothes were dirty. His blue eyes were wide with silent terror. He looked thinner than she remembered.
When he saw Sofia, his lips trembled.
He tried to speak—but only a weak breath escaped.
He hadn’t gone to Vermont.
He had been locked away.
For five days.