Chapter 3 3

The door to Cecilia Vance's Park Avenue apartment swung open before Emma could even knock.

Cecilia took one look at Emma's pale face and bloodshot eyes and pulled her inside, wrapping her arms tight around her.

"He finally did it," Cecilia murmured into Emma's hair. It wasn't a question.

The dam broke. The tension she had held in her shoulders for months shattered. Emma buried her face in her friend's shoulder and wept. She cried until her ribs ached, ugly, gasping sobs that tore through the quiet apartment.

Cecilia didn't offer empty platitudes. She just guided Emma to the plush sofa, handed her a box of tissues, and poured a generous shot of brandy into a cup of chamomile tea.

It took twenty minutes for Emma to choke out the story. The strawberry, the laptop, Sophie's words.

Cecilia paced the rug, her heels digging into the fibers. "I told you that girl was poison. I told you Darius was a narcissist. Divorce him, Emma. Take him to the cleaners."

Emma wiped her eyes, her breathing ragged. Before she could answer, her phone buzzed on the coffee table.

The screen lit up: Darius.

Emma hit the decline button without a moment's hesitation.

A second later, it rang again. This time, the caller ID read: Una O'Malley (House).

Emma hesitated. Una was the housekeeper; she was perhaps the only person in that house who didn't look at Emma with either malice or pity. She answered.

"Ma'am," Una's voice was hushed, laced with panic. "Did you forget what today is?"

Emma felt a cold sweat break out on the back of her neck. She checked the date on her phone. The numbers blurred.

"Your parents' anniversary," Una said quickly. "Mr. Hardy ordered the kitchen to prepare a banquet. He said... he wants to surprise you. He's asking you to come back."

A lump formed in Emma's throat. A bizarre, foolish flicker of hope ignited in her chest. Was it possible? Was the video a wake-up call?

"Don't do it," Cecilia warned from across the room, reading Emma's expression. "It's a trap."

Emma hung up. "It's my parents. I have to go. For them."

An hour later, Emma pushed open the front door of the townhouse.

The interior had been transformed. Soft white lights were strung along the banister. A massive bouquet of white roses sat on the console table.

Darius stood in the foyer, looking polished and handsome. He stepped forward, offering her the roses.

"Let's talk, Emma. I was out of line this morning."

His voice was a smooth caress. He pulled out a chair for her at the dining table.

Sophie sat across from them. Under Darius's stern gaze, Sophie mumbled, "Sorry I yelled."

The dinner was excruciating. Every smile Darius gave her felt like a lie. Every time he refilled her wine glass, she felt the noose tightening.

Finally, the dessert course arrived.

Ashlea walked in from the kitchen, carrying a silver tray. She was beaming, her eyes bright with an unnatural fever.

"Emma, I baked these just for you," Ashlea chirped, setting a plate down in front of her. "Rose shortbread. I hope you like them."

The air in the room vanished.

Emma stared at the delicate, pale pink cookies.

Rose.

Her mother had died from acute anaphylactic shock after ingesting rose extract. It was the trauma that defined Emma's life. Darius knew it. Ashlea knew it.

And today was the anniversary of her parents' death.

This wasn't an apology. This was a curse. This was a venomous, calculated attack disguised as a pastry.

Emma slowly raised her head. She met Ashlea's innocent gaze. But behind the wide eyes, Emma saw it. The malice. The pure, unadulterated sadism.

Ashlea's lips moved. No sound came out, but the words were clear as day.

Go to hell.

"Come on, Emma," Darius said from across the table, willfully blind, a cruel smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he maliciously encouraged her. "Try it. It's Ashlea's way of saying sorry."

A loud ringing started in Emma's ears. The final thread of hope, the tiny thread that had prayed her husband was just misguided, snapped.