FLUENT IN FORBIDDEN — CHAPTER SIX

"The clock has struck three, the coffee is cold, and the shadows are beginning to speak. Welcome back to the desk of The Night Writer, where the stories are brewed in the dark."

The morning light in the penthouse was cold and clinical, reflecting off the white marble like a blade. I was back in my "uniform"—the quiet, efficient domestic worker—moving through the dining hall to clear the wreckage of last night’s ministerial dinner.

Julian was there, slumped in a designer chair, staring at a cup of black coffee as if it held the secrets of the universe. He looked older today. The reckless playboy mask was gone, replaced by a haunting exhaustion.

As I reached for his empty saucer, his hand shot out, catching my wrist. It wasn't the frantic, heated grip from the storage room. It was a plea.

"I thought I was the smart one, Mikael," he whispered, his voice cracking. "In the library, when I told you Layla was being 'stupid'... I actually believed I was the one protecting her. I thought I was keeping her secret from my brother."

He let out a short, bitter laugh that sounded like breaking glass.

"I was so arrogant. I lectured her on being careful, while my brother sat in the next room, probably laughing at me. He didn't just 'find out' about Mansour. He vetted him. He practically hand-delivered her to that monster to secure the Mediterranean routes."

I stayed silent, allowing him the space to bleed. In my world, the most powerful thing you can give someone is a witness to their truth.

"I’ve spent years playing the 'disappointing brother,'" Julian continued, finally looking up at me. His eyes were raw. "But I was the one who was blind. I didn't see the strings. I didn't see that every 'accident' and every 'romance' in this house was just a transaction. I'm not the hero of this story, Mikael. I’m just another piece of furniture he hasn't sold yet."

I leaned down, moving closer than a servant should. "You were wrong because you still have a heart, Julian. In this house, that is a tactical disadvantage. But it’s also the only thing that makes you worth saving."

I slid my hand over his, a brief, grounding contact. "Now, tell me. What did you find in the safe?"

His expression hardened. "The passport. Yours. And a set of ledgers that don't match the ones the Ministry saw last night. He’s not just selling Layla; he’s laundering Mansour’s shipping profits through the family foundation."

"Then we have our leverage," I said, my mind already translating the data into a weapon.

The heavy double doors at the end of the hall swung open. The Boss—Julian’s brother—walked in, his suit perfectly pressed, his face a mask of predatory calm. He stopped, his eyes flicking from Julian’s haggard face to my hand, which I had retracted just a second too late.

"Mikael," the Boss said, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "I noticed a discrepancy in the pantry inventory this morning. It seems a bottle of my 2012 Bordeaux is missing. You wouldn't happen to know where it went, would you?"

The air in the room turned to ice. Julian went pale, his breath hitching. He knew—we both knew—that the "missing wine" was a test. A way to see if we would blink.

"I’ll check the logs, sir," I said, my voice as steady as a surgeon’s. "Perhaps it was misplaced during the rush."

"Do that," the Boss said, his gaze lingering on me a moment too long. "Because in this house, we don't tolerate things that go missing in the dark."

"Daylight is coming to claim the quiet, but these words stay with you. If you enjoyed this journey into the midnight hours, leave a heart or a tip to keep the candles burning. Sleep well—if you can. — The Night Writer."