Chapter 3 3

The heavy wrought-iron gates of Langley Manor loomed ahead, their sharp spikes piercing the gray autumn sky.

As the Maybach glided through, the gates groaned and clanged shut behind them. The metallic crash echoed in Beth's chest. It sounded exactly like a prison door locking.

Her phone buzzed again.

It was the third missed call from Lachlan.

Beth stared at his name flashing on the screen. Her stomach churned with a mixture of disgust and residual fear. She pressed the power button, held it down until the screen went black, and tossed the dead phone into her Hermès Birkin bag.

The car rolled to a stop at the base of the massive granite steps leading up to the main house.

The driver opened her door. Beth stepped out. The biting wind off Long Island Sound whipped the hem of her trench coat around her legs, but she didn't shiver. The cold inside her was much worse.

Martha Stokes, the senior housekeeper, was already standing on the porch. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun, but her eyes were wide with deep, genuine anxiety.

Martha reached out and took Beth's coat. Her hands were trembling slightly.

As Beth walked into the grand foyer, she noticed the immediate shift in the air.

Three maids dusting the grand staircase froze. They didn't bow their heads in greeting. Instead, they quickly averted their eyes and scurried away into the adjacent hallways, treating Beth like she was carrying a highly contagious, lethal virus.

Beth's jaw tightened. The isolation protocol had already begun.

Martha stepped closer, lowering her voice to a frantic whisper. "Ma'am. The private attorneys for Mr. Gaston Langley were here this morning. They spent two hours in the study. They took several boxes of files related to your personal trust fund."

Beth's heart skipped a beat, but she forced her face to remain perfectly still.

So, Finch's medical report was already in motion. They were moving to freeze her assets before the psychiatric hold was even finalized.

"Thank you, Martha," Beth said, her voice eerily calm. "Please bring a pot of hot chamomile tea to my private sitting room. Leave it at the door."

Martha looked like she wanted to say more, but she nodded and hurried toward the kitchens.

Beth walked alone up the sweeping spiral staircase.

When she reached the second-floor landing, her steps faltered. Her eyes were drawn against her will to the spot near the railing.

This was where Essie had fallen.

Suddenly, a sharp, agonizing migraine pierced Beth's brain. It wasn't a sound in the room; it was inside her skull.

A terrifying sense of déjà vu washed over her, a fragmented, blurry sensation of a script she couldn't fully read, demanding her compliance. It was a phantom weight pressing down on her shoulders, a psychological conditioning so deep it felt like a physical entity.

Beth gritted her teeth, tasting the metallic tang of blood as she bit the inside of her cheek. She forced her legs to move, physically pushing through the pain until she reached her bedroom door.

She shoved the door open and locked it behind her.

The room was a masterpiece of cold luxury. Silk drapes, antique furniture, and a massive bed that she and Lachlan had barely shared.

Beth walked straight to the walk-in closet. Hidden behind a row of designer coats was a steel wall safe.

She punched in the twelve-digit code. A small red laser scanned her right retina.

The heavy steel door clicked and swung open.

Beth bypassed the velvet boxes of diamonds and pulled out a slim, black leather checkbook and a Montblanc fountain pen.

A soft knock sounded at her bedroom door.

"Ma'am? Your tea," Martha's voice called out nervously.

Beth walked over and unlocked the door. Martha stood there holding a silver tray, the porcelain cup rattling slightly against the saucer.

"Bring it inside," Beth commanded.

Martha stepped in and placed the tray on the glass coffee table.

Beth walked over to the mahogany writing desk. She opened the checkbook, uncapped the pen, and began to write. The scratch of the nib against the paper was loud in the quiet room.

She signed her name with a sharp, aggressive flourish, tore the check from the book, and held it out to Martha.

Martha wiped her hands on her apron and took the slip of paper.

She looked at the numbers. All the color instantly drained from her face.

The silver tray clattered as Martha bumped against the table. A few drops of hot tea spilled over the rim of the cup.

"Ma'am... I... I can't," Martha stammered, her voice shaking. "This is... this is ten years of my salary. I cannot accept this."

She tried to push the check back into Beth's hand.

Beth stepped forward and forcefully shoved the check deep into the pocket of Martha's apron.

"You will take it," Beth said, her voice hard and uncompromising. "And you will pack your bags and leave this estate within the hour. Do not tell the head butler. Just go."

Martha stared at her, tears welling up in her wrinkled eyes.

"There is a storm coming to this house, Martha," Beth said, her tone softening just a fraction. "Anyone standing too close to me is going to become collateral damage. You need to get out."

Martha's lower lip trembled. She looked at Beth's pale face, the dark circles under her eyes, and the terrifying calmness in her posture.

Martha misunderstood completely. She thought she was looking at a woman who had given up. A woman preparing to end her own life.

Martha reached out and grabbed Beth's cold hands, squeezing them tightly.

"Please, Mrs. Langley," Martha sobbed, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Don't do anything foolish. Whatever it is, it will pass. God sees the truth. Please don't hurt yourself."

The rough, warm texture of Martha's calloused hands sent a sudden, painful ache through Beth's chest. In this entire fabricated, toxic world, this old woman's tears were the only real thing she had experienced.

Beth gently pulled her hands free.

She looked Martha dead in the eye. A small, sharp smile touched her lips.

"I am not going to kill myself, Martha," Beth said quietly. "I am going to start a war."

Martha blinked, confused and frightened by the intensity in Beth's eyes. But the absolute authority in Beth's voice left no room for argument.

Martha wiped her face, bowed her head deeply, and backed out of the room.

The door clicked shut. The lock engaged.

Beth was alone again. The smile vanished from her face, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion.

She walked over to her vanity mirror. She stared at her own reflection. The script had designed her to be the beautiful, wicked villain. A pawn meant to be sacrificed for the main characters' happiness.

She opened the top drawer of the vanity and pulled out a silver letter opener. The blade was razor-sharp, gleaming under the chandelier light.

She picked up a framed 8x10 photograph sitting on the table. It was her and Lachlan on their wedding day. He was smiling at the camera; she was looking at him. It was a perfect lie.

Beth gripped the letter opener. She drove the sharp point directly into the center of the glass.

The glass shattered with a loud crack. She dragged the blade down, slicing the photograph perfectly in half, separating her image from his.

She dropped the ruined frame into the trash bin.

Suddenly, a rapid, aggressive series of chimes shattered the silence.

Beth turned around. She had turned her phone on when she walked into the room.

It was sitting on the bed, vibrating violently as a flood of news push notifications cascaded down the screen, lighting up the dark room with a harsh, glaring glow.