Chapter 4

HAZEL POV:

I was a prisoner in my own room. The next day, Jodie appeared in the doorway, a vision of false sympathy. "Hazel, I'm so sorry," she began, her voice soft and cloying. "This is all my fault. Grandpa Bertrand loves you so much, he must be heartbroken."

Her words were carefully chosen daggers. I glanced up, my eyes meeting hers, and I let the mask of politeness fall away for just a second. I let her see the ice in my gaze.

"You should never have used my parents to threaten me, Jodie."

Her victim act kicked in instantly. Her eyes welled with tears, her lip trembled. "How could you say that?" she whimpered.

Right on cue, Carter stormed in. "What are you doing to her?" he snarled, rushing to Jodie's side and pulling her behind him as if protecting her from a monster.

"Carter, it's not Hazel's fault," Jodie sobbed into his chest. "I just wanted to apologize."

"She's always been like this!" Carter said, glaring at me. "Aggressive and cruel."

I looked at their intertwined hands and a bitter, self-mocking laugh escaped my lips.

Carter had the grace to look guilty. He dropped Jodie's hand. "I'm just trying to look out for you, Hazel," he said, the lie tasting like ash in the air.

Suddenly, a fire alarm blared through the house. Smoke began to pour from under the door of the west wing library.

"Fire!" Jodie gasped.

I jumped up, running for the hallway. Carter grabbed Jodie and ran in the opposite direction, toward the main exit. He didn't even glance back.

I raced towards the library. I knew my brother Gary's old journals were in there, the only things I had left of him. The smoke was thick, choking me. I found the journals, clutching them to my chest, and ran for the door.

It was locked from the outside.

My blood ran cold. Carter and Jodie were the only ones who had gone that way. They had locked me in. They were trying to kill me.

Panic seized me, but I fought it down. I remembered a small service door in the back. I ran, my lungs burning, and threw my shoulder against it. It burst open, and I stumbled out into the night, collapsing on the grass, gasping for air.

It took me half an hour to make my way back to the front of the house. Bertrand was standing there, his face grim, watching the fire consume the library.

"Carter told me you went in to get something and knocked over a lamp," he said, his voice laced with suspicion.

I looked past him. Carter was there, his arm wrapped protectively around Jodie, his eyes fixed on her.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and just shook my head, too weary to fight anymore.

Just then, two police cars screamed up the driveway. Officers rushed out and came straight for me.

Before I could process what was happening, one of them snapped a pair of handcuffs on my wrists. "Hazel Finley, you're under arrest for using your art gallery business for money laundering and wire fraud."

My face went pale. Money laundering? I remembered Jodie asking to "borrow" my gallery's online payment portal months ago, to sell a few pieces for a "friend." Carter had been there. He had smiled and said, "Let her, Hazel. It's for a good cause."

I had let her. Another act of trust, another betrayal.

"It wasn't me!" I screamed, my eyes locking on Carter. "It was her!"

But no one was listening. All eyes were on Bertrand, who had clutched his chest, his face turning a deathly gray as he collapsed from the shock.

I was dragged away. I spent a day and a night in a cold interrogation room. When they finally let me go, I stumbled out of the police station into a nightmare.

A mob of reporters swarmed me, their cameras flashing like lightning, their questions like blows.

"Mrs. Hancock, is it true you've been selling forgeries?"

"How could you bring such shame to the Hancock name?"

Then, someone threw a milkshake. It splattered against my face, cold and sticky. The crowd laughed. I tried to speak, to defend myself, but only a choked, gagging sound came out.

I felt my knees buckle. Just as I was about to fall, a black car pulled up and Carter emerged, flanked by bodyguards. He pushed through the crowd, his face a perfect mask of concern. He gently wiped the filth from my face with a silk handkerchief.

"I'm so sorry, Hazel," he whispered, his voice full of fake remorse. "I came as soon as I heard."

I knew he was lying. I had seen his car parked across the street the whole time. He had watched. He wanted me broken, humiliated, so I would be easier to control.

The legal troubles disappeared, but my reputation was destroyed. That night, I walked past the study. The door was ajar. I looked.

Carter was kissing Jodie, his hands tangled in her hair.

"I only love you," he was whispering against her lips. "Being with her is just a task. An obligation. Do you know how much I hate it? After I touch her, I have to shower three times to wash the feeling of her off my skin."

Jodie made a soft, whimpering sound of pleasure.

A bitter acid rose in my throat. I stumbled back, my hand knocking a vase off a pedestal. It shattered on the floor.

The sounds inside the study stopped instantly.

"Who's there?" Carter's voice was sharp, cold as ice.