The next forty-eight hours were a masterclass in psychological endurance. Valerie was increasingly brazen, parading around the house, ordering the staff, and treating me with a mixture of coddling fake-sympathy and whispered cruelty.
On Thursday night, the eve of the gala, I made my move.
I had laced Valerie’s evening tea with three sedatives this time. She was practically comatose on the daybed, snoring softly.
I slipped out of my room, dressed in dark clothing, the silicone fingerprint tucked into my pocket. I moved silently down to the ground floor, bypassing the main hallway and using the servants’ corridors to reach Julian’s private study.
The heavy oak door was locked, but Julian was a creature of habit. He always left the spare key hidden inside the hollowed-out base of the bronze eagle statue in the corridor. I retrieved it, unlocked the door, and slipped inside.
The study smelled of rich leather, expensive tobacco, and arrogance. I moved directly to the massive mahogany desk. I knelt on the plush Persian rug and felt underneath the desk. There, hidden behind a false wooden panel, was the cold steel of the biometric safe.
My hands were shaking violently as I pressed the silicone mold against the green glowing scanner.
Scan. Processing. Click.
The heavy metal door sprang open.
I pulled out a small penlight, holding it between my teeth, and began sifting through the contents. Stacks of cash. Offshore bank account ledgers. And finally, two thick manila folders.
I opened the first one. It was a medical file from a high-end private clinic in Manhattan. My name was at the top. I flipped to the ultrasound report from three months ago. There, highlighted in yellow marker, were the words: Fetal Sex: Female.
I opened the second folder. The name on the tab read Valerie Hayes. I scanned the pages until I found her ultrasound, dated just a few weeks after mine.
Fetal Sex: Male.
Bile rose in my throat. It was true. They had orchestrated my torture, hoping the extreme physiological shock of the wasabi would kill my daughter, clearing the path for Valerie’s son.
I pulled out my burner phone and rapidly photographed every page, ensuring the dates, names, and medical letterheads were perfectly legible.
Just as I snapped the final photo of Valerie’s file, a sound shattered the silence of the night.
The unmistakable click of the study door unlocking.
Panic, raw and absolute, seized my chest. I shoved the folders back into the safe, slammed the heavy metal door shut, and scrambled backward, wedging myself deep under the massive cavern of the mahogany desk just as the door swung open.
The overhead lights flared to life.
I clamped both hands over my mouth, pressing myself against the back panel of the desk, pulling my knees to my chest.
Heavy, confident footsteps crossed the room. I could see the polished black leather of Julian’s dress shoes stopping just inches from the edge of the desk. He sighed, a heavy, exhausted sound, and pulled the leather office chair out.
He sat down. His legs, clad in expensive wool trousers, were less than a foot away from my face.
I stopped breathing. The only sound in my ears was the deafening, frantic drumming of my own heart. If he looked down. If he stretched his legs. I was dead. I wouldn’t even make it to the psychiatric ward. He would kill me right here.
I heard the clink of crystal above me. He was pouring a glass of scotch.
Then, he picked up his phone and dialed.
“Mother,” Julian’s voice rumbled above me, smooth and cold. “Yes, the gala preparations are complete. The press has confirmed attendance.”
A pause as Margaret spoke on the other end.
“Evelyn is docile,” Julian replied, taking a sip of his drink. “The drugs Valerie is giving her have turned her into a ghost. She doesn’t suspect a thing. She’ll smile for the cameras tomorrow, we’ll make our speech, and we’ll secure the foundation money.”
Another pause.
“I know,” Julian snapped, a hint of irritation in his voice. “I have the committal papers drafted. The moment the gala is over, Dr. Evans is signing the order. The ambulance will be waiting at the back entrance of the estate to take her to the facility. Valerie will move into the master suite by Sunday.”
Tears of pure rage pricked my eyes. They had it all planned. Down to the minute.
“Goodnight, Mother,” Julian said, hanging up.
He shifted in his chair. Suddenly, his arm brushed the edge of the desk, and something rolled off.
A heavy, gold-plated Montblanc fountain pen hit the Persian rug with a dull thud. It rolled directly beneath the desk, stopping exactly halfway between Julian’s leather shoes and my trembling hands.
My blood ran cold.
Julian groaned in annoyance. I watched in absolute, paralyzing horror as his hand descended into the shadows beneath the desk, groping blindly in the dark for the pen.
His fingers swept across the rug. They brushed against the fabric of my dark silk robe.
My heart stopped.
He paused. His fingers twitched. He was trying to identify the texture. I squeezed my eyes shut, preparing for the violent grip, for the scream, for the end.
But his hand moved an inch to the left, his fingers wrapping around the cold gold of the pen. He pulled his hand back, sitting up.
“Damn it,” he muttered, finishing his scotch in one gulp. He stood up, pushed the chair back, and walked out of the study, turning off the lights and locking the door behind him.
I remained frozen under the desk for another ten minutes, tears streaming silently down my face, before I finally crawled out.
I looked at the burner phone in my hand. I had the files. I had the motive. I had the weapon.
Julian wanted to send me to an asylum in the morning. But first, he had to survive the night.
Chapter 5: The Masquerade
My husband strapped his pregnant wife to a metal chair while his mother shoved pure wasabi down my throat. When I choked and gagged for air, he sat just feet away, casually eating raw sashimi. They thought no one was watching in that soundproof room, but a forgotten hidden camera in the ventilation shaft had been recording.
Part 4 of 7
