Chapter 2 No.2

The rain outside was torrential, hammering against the windows like a thousand tiny fists demanding entry. It was the next evening. Eleanor had spent the last twenty-four hours effectively under house arrest, refusing to come out, packing a single bag with clinical efficiency.

A maid knocked on the door. "Miss Eleanor? Your father demands your presence at dinner. He says... he says if you don't come down, he will have the locks changed on the guest house tonight."

Eleanor opened the door. She wasn't wearing the pastel, modest dresses Vivian preferred. Tonight, she wore black. Sharp, tailored black. It was a funeral dress, appropriate, she thought, because tonight a family was dying.

"I'm coming," she said.

She descended the stairs. The dining room was a tableau of tension. The table was set with crystal and silver, the chandelier overhead casting a fractured light over the scene. Cassandra was already seated, smirking, a bandage on her wrist-the wrist Eleanor hadn't touched.

Robert sat at the head of the table. "Sit," he commanded.

Eleanor pulled out her chair. The scraping sound was loud in the silence.

A maid placed a salad in front of her. The dressing was thick, dark, and oily.

Eleanor stared at the bowl. The scent was faint, masked by vinegar, but her senses were honed. Roasted peanuts.

"Eat," Vivian said from the other end of the table. She was wearing a pristine white Chanel suit, looking every inch the matriarch. "It's a Thai-inspired dressing. Very chic."

"I'm allergic to peanuts," Eleanor said calmly. "You know this. I went to the hospital when I was seven."

"Stop being dramatic," Vivian waved a hand dismissively. "It's just a mild intolerance. You always exaggerate to get attention. Cassandra has real allergies. You just have... moods."

"Mom made it specially," Cassandra chimed in, her voice dripping with faux-sweetness. "Are you saying Mom wants to poison you? That's so hurtful, Ellie."

Eleanor looked at the salad. Then she looked at her mother. There was no concern in Vivian's eyes, only a challenge. Obey me. Eat the poison and smile.

Eleanor laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound that made Robert twitch.

"You want me to eat?" Eleanor asked.

"I want you to stop acting like a spoiled brat and respect your mother's effort," Robert slammed his hand on the table.

"Okay," Eleanor said.

She stood up.

She reached for the bottle of 1982 Château Margaux sitting near Robert's elbow. A heavy, expensive bottle.

"You want a show?" Eleanor asked softly. "I'll give you a show."

She uncorked the wine. The pop was satisfying.

"Eleanor, sit down," Robert warned.

Eleanor walked toward Vivian.

Vivian frowned. "What are you doing? Pour me a glass, if you're finally making yourself useful."

"Useful," Eleanor repeated. "Yes. I'll be useful."

She tilted the bottle.

She didn't pour it into the glass.

She splashed the entire contents of the bottle onto Vivian's white Chanel suit.

The red liquid hit the fabric like a gunshot wound. It soaked instantly, spreading across the chest, dripping down onto the expensive carpet. It looked like a massacre.

Vivian shrieked. It was a primal, high-pitched scream. She froze in shock, looking down at her ruined couture.

"Eleanor!" Robert roared, knocking his chair over as he stood up.

Eleanor didn't flinch. She placed the empty bottle on the table with a gentle clink.

Then, she turned to Cassandra.

Cassandra's mouth was open. "You... you crazy bitch!"

"Language, sister," Eleanor said.

She grabbed a serving spoon from the center dish-shrimp cocktail in a red sauce. Cassandra had claimed for years to have a deadly shellfish allergy. It was her trump card at every restaurant, ensuring the attention was always on her dietary needs.

But Eleanor had seen her. Two weeks ago. At a private party in the Hamptons that Cassandra didn't know Eleanor was attending in the shadows. She had seen Cassandra inhaling shrimp tempura like popcorn.

Eleanor moved faster than Cassandra could react. She didn't use force; she used proximity. She trapped Cassandra against the high-backed chair and brought the spoon, dripping with shrimp sauce, inches from Cassandra's face.

"Get away!" Cassandra screamed, recoiling.

"Why?" Eleanor asked, her voice silky. "It's just sauce. If you're allergic, even the mist from this should be triggering a reaction by now. Your throat should be closing up."

She flicked the spoon. A spray of red sauce landed on Cassandra's cheek and lips.

"No!" Cassandra wailed, scrubbing at her face, smearing the sauce. She waited for the choking. She waited for the swelling.

Robert was rounding the table, his face purple with rage. "I'm calling the police! You're trying to kill her!"

"Wait," Eleanor said, holding up a hand. "Just wait."

They waited.

Ten seconds.

Twenty seconds.

Cassandra was sobbing, clutching her throat, waiting for the anaphylaxis.

Thirty seconds.

Nothing.

No swelling. No hives. No gasping for air. The sauce sat on her skin, harmless.

The silence that followed was heavier than the screaming.

Vivian stopped wiping her dress. She looked at Cassandra. Robert looked at Cassandra.

The cognitive dissonance was palpable. They saw the truth-Cassandra was fine-but their brains were struggling to overwrite the narrative they had believed for years.

"It... it must be a delayed reaction!" Cassandra wailed, realizing she wasn't dying. "Or she switched the sauce! She's a witch!"

Eleanor wiped her hands on a linen napkin. She threw the napkin onto the table, right into the peanut dressing.

"I resign," Eleanor said.

"You what?" Robert blinked.

"I resign from this family." Eleanor reached into her small black purse. She pulled out a folded document. It wasn't a child's tantrum letter. It was a formal legal waiver.

"This is a Waiver of Interest and a Severance of Trust," Eleanor said, slamming it onto the wet tablecloth. "I am voluntarily forfeiting my claim to the Vance estate, the trust fund, and any future assets. In exchange for immediate emancipation from your... oversight."

"You can't leave," Vivian sputtered, trembling with rage. "You have nowhere to go! You have no money! We cut you off!"

"Watch me," Eleanor said.

She turned on her heel. Her footsteps were steady.

"If you walk out that door," Robert shouted, his voice cracking, "you are dead to us!"

"I was dead the moment you chose a liar over your daughter," Eleanor said without turning around.

She walked out the front door.

The rain hit her instantly. It was cold, freezing, soaking her to the bone in seconds. She had no umbrella. No car. No coat.

Behind her, the heavy oak door of the Vance Manor slammed shut. The sound was final.

Eleanor stood in the driveway. The water plastered her hair to her face. She shivered.

She had done it. She was free.

But freedom was cold.

She started walking toward the main road.

Headlights cut through the darkness. A sleek, massive car was rolling slowly down the street. A Rolls-Royce Phantom. It slowed as it approached her.

Eleanor tensed. She reached into her sleeve, her fingers brushing the small tactical pen she always carried.

The window rolled down.