Chapter 3 3

Araminta woke to the sound of the lock turning. She had curled up on a pile of moth-eaten curtains, her body stiff and aching.

The door opened, and a maid threw a bundle of clothes onto the floor. It was a grey tracksuit, stained and worn.

"Master Javen says put these on," the maid sneered. "He doesn't want you walking around in that ruined dress. It's embarrassing."

Araminta didn't argue. She stripped off the damp, ruined evening gown and pulled on the tracksuit. It smelled of bleach and old sweat.

She didn't wait for permission. She pushed past the maid and stormed into the hallway.

"Hey! You can't-"

Araminta ignored her. She marched toward the main wing of the house. She knew where they would be. Richard Doyle's study.

She stopped outside the heavy mahogany doors. Voices drifted out.

"Alfonse is a lunatic," Javen was saying. "He signed the deal, but look at page forty. The penalty clauses are insane. If we miss a single quarterly projection, Wolfe Corp gets controlling interest."

Araminta pushed the doors open. They banged against the walls.

Richard Doyle sat behind his massive desk, a cigar clamped between his teeth. Javen was pacing by the fireplace. They both looked up.

"I want access to my trust," Araminta said, her voice steady and cold. "The education fund my parents left for me."

Richard took the cigar out of his mouth. He looked at her with genuine amusement. "What fund? We liquidated that ten years ago to pay your father's debts."

"Liar," Araminta said. She pulled her phone out. She had a photo of an old document she had found years ago, hidden in her mother's bible. "I have a copy of the original charter. It was supposed to be protected."

She held the screen up.

Javen moved fast. He crossed the room in two strides and snatched the phone from her hand.

"Javen!"

He didn't look at the screen. He turned and threw the phone directly into the roaring fireplace.

Araminta screamed. She lunged toward the fire, reaching for the device.

Javen grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her back. "Don't be stupid."

She watched as the plastic casing bubbled and melted. The screen blackened, then cracked. The battery exploded with a small pop.

"There," Javen said, releasing her hair. He shoved her away. "No evidence. That fund belongs to the Doyle family now. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, Araminta."

"And as your legal guardians," Richard added smoothly, tapping ash into a crystal tray, "we have full authority to manage your... negative assets."

Araminta stood panting, staring at the fire. The law. They owned the judges, the lawyers, the police. She couldn't win this way.

She took a deep breath. She had to pivot.

"Fine," she said. "Keep the money. I don't care. Just let me take Griffin. I want to take him out of the state facility."

Javen laughed. It was a cruel, incredulous sound. "Take the cripple? With what money? You have nothing. Without us paying the bill, he's on the street in twenty-four hours. He'll be dead in three days."

The door opened behind her. Victoria walked in, holding a single sheet of paper.

"Sign this," Victoria said, sliding the paper onto the desk. "A voluntary renunciation of all claims to the Donaldson estate and any future inheritance. You sign, and we agree to pay for Griffin's care for another month."

Araminta looked at the paper. It was slavery. It was signing away her freedom, her past, and her future.

"One month?" she asked.

"Take it or leave it," Javen said, leaning against the desk, crossing his arms. He looked so smug. So untouchable.

Araminta picked up the heavy fountain pen from the desk. Her hand trembled. She looked at Javen. He was grinning.

Rage, white-hot and blinding, exploded in her chest.

She didn't sign.

She swung her hand and drove the nib of the pen into the back of Javen's hand, right where it rested on the mahogany.

Javen howled.

Blood spurted over the papers. He flailed back, clutching his hand, the pen still sticking out of his skin. "You bitch! You crazy bitch!"

"Get her!" Richard roared, standing up.

Araminta grabbed the edge of a heavy bookshelf near the door and pulled with all her weight. It tipped. Books cascaded down, creating a chaotic barrier between her and the men.

She turned and ran.

She sprinted down the hall, hearing Javen's shouts behind her. "Seal the exits! Don't let her leave!"

She ducked into a guest bedroom and slammed the door, twisting the lock. It wouldn't hold them for long.

Thud.

Something heavy hit the door from the outside. The wood splintered.

"Open this door, Araminta! I'm going to kill you!" Javen screamed.

Araminta looked around wildly. Second floor. The window looked out over the back gardens. It was a twenty-foot drop.

Her eyes landed on the heavy, damask curtains. They were old, but the fabric was thick, woven for a bygone era of quality. She tore them from the rod, the sound of ripping fabric a counterpoint to the splintering of the door.

She worked with frantic speed, knotting the thick velvet panels together, her knuckles raw. She tied one end around the heavy, cast-iron radiator, pulling on it with all her weight. It held.

The door frame cracked. A fist punched through the wood.

Araminta climbed onto the sill. The night air was cold. Below her, the dark bushes looked like jagged teeth.

She had one chance. One person in the world who had enough power to crush the Doyles.

She closed her eyes, reciting the number she had memorized from the contract cover on the yacht.

Alfonse Wolfe.

She gripped the knotted curtains and jumped.