The silence in the Hayes mansion crackled like live wire.
Elara's thumb hovered over her phone screen, the threat to call the police
hanging heavy in the air. Robert's voice cut through the tension, smooth as
poisoned silk. "Elara, wait," he commanded, wheeling closer. His eyes
were dark pools of calculated calm. "This is family business. Let the
Hayeses handle it internally. You have my word—there will be no
favouritism." Across the room, Bianca's shoulders sagged in visible
relief, a triumphant smirk twisting her lips. Elara remained frozen, knuckles
bone-white around her phone, her silence louder than any protest.
Robert summoned every servant in the mansion. Twenty pairs
of anxious eyes watched as he scanned the assembled staff, his presence
radiating cold authority. "Did anyone," he asked, his deep voice
echoing in the too-quiet room, "see Bianca enter Elara's bedroom during
the past ten days?" A heavy pause followed before a young maid, trembling
slightly, stepped forward. "I—I saw her, sir," she stammered.
"Two days ago. Ms. Finch and I were cleaning... Miss Bianca came in and
ordered us out." All eyes snapped to the stern-faced Ms. Finch, the
housekeeper whose loyalty to the Hayes family spanned three generations. Her
nod was grim, her expression unreadable. "She remained inside alone for
nearly an hour," Ms. Finch confirmed, her voice steady. "And yes,
during the days Miss Elara was absent, Miss Bianca was the only one who entered
her room."
Robert dismissed the staff with a curt wave. The moment the
door closed, the air turned leaden. He fixed Bianca with a gaze that could
freeze hell. "Why were you in her room?" he demanded, each word sharp
as ice. "Did you take what wasn't yours?"
Bianca's defiance exploded. "So what if I did?"
she shrieked, tossing her hair. "That worthless junk? I tossed it in the
dumpster! It's probably crushed at the recycling plant by now. Go dig through
the trash if you want it back so badly!"
Elara's blood turned to ice in her veins. The room seemed to
tilt. "Where. Did. You. Throw. It." The words were low, lethal,
scraping from her throat.
Bianca laughed, a cruel, brittle sound. "Can't
remember," she taunted, tilting her head like a predator savouring its
prey. "But beg nicely, Elara darling, and I might just recall.
Though," she added with a vicious smile, "with that attitude?
Probably not."
"BIANCA!" Robert roared, gripping the arms of his
wheelchair until his knuckles bleached white. "RETRIEVE IT. NOW."
"Make me!" Bianca shot back, crossing her arms
defiantly. "Or pack me off to Switzerland again. I honestly couldn't care
less."
Robert clutched his chest, a harsh gasp escaping him.
"First the drugging," he choked out, his face contorted with rage and
something like despair, "and now theft? Is there no line you won't cross?
You are a disgrace to this family!"
Elara had heard enough. She turned sharply towards the
stairs, her voice glacial. "I'm calling the police, Uncle Robert. This
ends now."
Bianca's response was a shrill shriek that ripped through
the grand hall. "YOU CALL THEM, AND YOU'LL NEVER SEE THAT STUPID BOX
AGAIN! I SWEAR IT!"
Elara froze mid-step. Slowly, deliberately, she turned back
to face her stepsister. The raw panic threatening to consume her was forced
down, replaced by a terrifying stillness. "What do you want?" Her
voice was dangerously calm.
Bianca's grin was pure venom. She sauntered closer, lowering
her voice to a malicious whisper meant only for Elara. "You'll stay here.
In this house. You don't leave until I say so." Her eyes glittered with
cruel amusement. "And when I'm good and ready... when you've behaved
enough to please me... I'll consider giving back your parents' pathetic little
trinkets." She leaned back, surveying Elara's pale face with satisfaction.
"Deal?"
Elara's fingernails dug deep into her palms, drawing blood.
The metallic scent mixed with the suffocating perfume Bianca wore. Every
instinct screamed to refuse, to fight. But the image of the empty drawer, the
carved wood box – her last tangible link to Evelyn and Conrad Hayes – flashed
before her eyes. Bianca had finally found the one thing she couldn't bear to
lose. Hatred, cold and sharp, coiled in her gut, but her voice, when it came,
was flat. "...Fine."
Later, in the oppressive silence of her reclaimed bedroom,
Robert found Elara standing by the window, staring into the dark gardens. He
wheeled himself closer, his expression etched with carefully constructed grief.
"Elara..." he began, his voice thick with apparent remorse.
"I... I failed you. Profoundly. Bianca... she was rotten to the core even
as a child. Spoiled by my father-in-law, enabled by Claire..." He sighed,
the picture of weary helplessness. "This useless body... I can manage the
company, God knows I try, but this family?" A bitter, self-deprecating
laugh escaped him. "It's beyond me. If your father, Conrad... if he were
still here—"
"Stop." Elara's voice cut through his performance
like a shard of glass. She didn't turn around. "Just get my box back.
Untouched. That's the only thing that matters now."
Robert stiffened almost imperceptibly, a flash of surprise
quickly masked. "You blame me," he stated softly, not quite a
question.
"Those memories," Elara said, her voice catching
slightly despite her iron control, "are my life. They are the last proof I
have that people who truly loved me once existed. I will be buried with
them." The regret was a physical ache. She should never have left the box
behind. She'd underestimated Bianca's spite.
Robert reached out as if to touch her arm in comfort. Elara
stepped away, out of reach. "I will make her return it," he vowed,
his voice earnest, his eyes suspiciously bright. "When this tantrum of
hers passes... I promise you, Elara."
Deep in the dead of night, the only light in Robert Hayes's
study came from a single green-shaded lamp, casting long, distorted shadows.
The heavy door was locked. From a concealed safe behind a false panel in the
bookshelf, Robert withdrew a large, old-fashioned pink metal box. The cheap
lock hung broken, clear signs of prying around its clasp.
Inside lay a jumble of small, seemingly insignificant items:
a faded ribbon, a chipped seashell, a tiny silver locket. And two thick,
leather-bound photo albums, their covers worn with age. Robert lifted one, the
leather cool under his trembling fingers. He opened it.
A family portrait stared back, radiating a joy that felt
like a physical blow. Conrad Hayes, handsome and vibrant, stood tall, one arm
possessively around his beaming wife, Evelyn. Cradled between them, swaddled in
lace, was a baby Elara. They looked incandescently happy. Whole. Everything
Robert could never be.
His gaze locked onto Evelyn's face. His finger, shaking,
reached out and traced the curve of her paper cheek. His Evelyn. Obsession,
dark and hungry, flooded him. He snatched a pair of sharp, silver scissors from
his desk. Snip. Snip. Snip. The blades sliced through the photograph,
shredding Conrad's handsome face. Methodically, he pulled every picture
featuring his brother from the album. Conrad laughing. Conrad holding Evelyn.
Conrad looking down at baby Elara with adoration.
"YOU SHOULD'VE DIED ALONE!" Robert hissed, his
voice a guttural rasp in the silent room. He slashed at Conrad's image again
and again. "SHE WAS MINE! YOU STOLE HER! YOU TOOK HER EVEN IN DEATH! YOU
TOOK EVERYTHING!" Spittle flew from his lips. He slammed his fist onto his
useless legs, the pain a dull echo of the fury consuming him. "LOOK AT
ME!" he screamed at the mutilated photographs. "A CRIPPLE LURKING IN
SHADOWS WHILE YOU STILL GET TO HOLD HER IN A GODDAMN PICTURE!"
The scissors rose again, not to cut, but to stab. With a
guttural cry, he plunged the point into the paper where Conrad's heart would
be. Over. And over. And over. The sound of tearing paper and ragged breathing
was the only thing breaking the midnight silence.