The air in the room turned leaden the moment Bianca's words
hung between them. Claire stood utterly still, her carefully composed features
tightening as storm clouds of fury and revulsion gathered in her eyes. She
stared at her daughter, barely able to process the ugly truth slowly dawning on
them both.
After a weighted pause, Claire's voice came out low, sharp
with grim resolve. "This isn't your fight. Don't make it yours. Find a way to
step back—now. As for Elara's things… I know where they are."
"You know?" Bianca's voice was barely a whisper, her eyes
widening as cold dread coiled deep in her stomach. "Mother… tell me you didn't
take them."
Claire let out a sharp, frustrated breath, pinching the
bridge of her nose as though physically pained by her daughter's naivety.
"Sometimes I wonder how a daughter of mine can be so blindly simple."
Bianca flinched as if struck, dropping her gaze and biting
her lip until she tasted blood. She didn't dare reply.
Claire's face—usually a mask of polished control—twisted
with raw contempt. Her voice dropped to a venomous hiss, each word deliberate
and cold. "He'd better have kept it all. If a single thing is missing… I'll
make sure he watches everything he's built catch fire."
Slowly, horribly, the meaning behind her mother's words
began to slot into place. Bianca's breath hitched. Her pupils dilated as the
realisation struck like a physical blow—a sickening, vile picture forming in
her mind. Shame and fury burned through her, hot and unstoppable, flushing her
neck and blazing behind her eyes.
She knew.
She finally knew who had really taken the box.
In the oppressive silence of his oak-panelled study, Robert
Hayes sat motionless, his gaze fixed on two damning documents. The only sound
was the sharp scratch of a match catching flame. He brought the fire to the end
of his cigarette, inhaling deeply as toxic smoke filled his lungs. With a
trembling hand, he pulled open the top drawer and retrieved a single, worn
photograph.
The man in the picture stood tall and proud, his posture
speaking of noble bearing and extraordinary grace. But the face was a ruined
landscape—scratched and burned beyond recognition, a ghost from a past Robert
desperately wanted to erase.
A vicious sneer twisted his lips. With methodical cruelty,
he pressed the glowing cherry of his cigarette against the photograph's centre,
right where the face would have been. He ground it down with a satisfying
sizzle, lost in his bitter triumph.
So consumed by hatred, he didn't hear the door handle turn.
The door swung open silently.
Claire stood frozen at the threshold, taking in the scene:
her husband's contorted expression, the violent, petty act of desecration. Her
heart hammered against her ribs—a sickening mix of revulsion and grim
validation.
"Who let you in? Get out!" Robert roared, startled
from his dark ritual. He scrambled to cover the photograph with scattered
documents, his face flushing with rage and embarrassment.
Claire didn't retreat. Instead, she stepped inside, closing
the door with a soft but definitive click that echoed through the tense room.
She marched to his desk, and when he tried to block her, her hand darted out
like a striking snake, snatching the scorched photograph.
A cold, mocking laugh escaped her. "Ugh. Robert. Tell
me—how much do you still hate your own brother? He's dead and buried, but you
can't even leave his memory alone. You stole this from Elara, didn't you? You
pathetic worm."
Her mockery solidified into pure, undiluted contempt. Her
expression went cold and flat as she hurled the photo back into his face.
"You're sick. A complete pervert."
The venom in her voice ignited his fury. "Shut your
mouth! What could you possibly understand?!" he bellowed, his entire body
trembling. How could she comprehend the burning humiliation of having the woman
he loved stolen by his own brother?
"Oh, I don't understand?" Claire's laugh was sharp
and sarcastic. "There's no one who understands better. No one sees your
disgusting, twisted nature more clearly than I do."
She leaned forward, her eyes drilling into his soul.
"You think your dirty secret is safe? You lusted after your own
sister-in-law. Now that she's dead, you're fixating on her daughter—your own
niece! You're a monster."
Exposed and laid bare, Robert saw red. Pure rage consumed
him. His hand shot up, poised to slap the defiance from her face.
"Go on. Do it," Claire dared him, her voice
dropping to a low, steely register. Robert's hand froze mid-air, trembling with
suppressed violence. "I wish you would. Give me the excuse to expose every
rotten thing you've ever done. Let's see which one of us is still standing when
the truth comes out."
She straightened to her full height, looking down at him
like a queen passing judgment on a condemned man. "Don't you dare try to
make Bianca take the blame for you again. You will return every single one of
Elara's things. All of them. If you don't, you can sit here and wait for Elara
to arrive with Silas Thorne. I'm sure that's a conversation you'll truly
enjoy."
With one last scornful look, she turned and swept out of the
study, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Robert was left alone, gasping for air, his entire body
shaking with impotent rage. With a guttural roar, he swept his arm across the
desk, sending everything—documents, ashtray, the hated photograph—crashing to
the floor in a satisfying explosion of his frustration.
Elara had guessed Robert would eventually compromise, but
she never expected it to happen so fast.
The next afternoon, just after three, she was curled on the
plush living room sofa, a business proposal on her tablet forgotten in her lap.
From the study down the hall, she could hear the low, steady murmur of Silas's
voice as he presided over a video conference.
The chime of the doorbell made her jump.
Setting the tablet aside, she padded to the door and opened
it to find Andy standing there. He peeked past her shoulder for a brief second
before offering a shy, almost apologetic smile.
"I won't come in," he said quickly. "The boss
isn't fond of outsiders in his private space." He shuddered slightly, as
if the mere thought was treason.
Elara closed her slightly parted lips, swallowing her
invitation.
"Miss Hayes," Andy continued, holding out a simple
black handbag. "Mr. Robert Hayes asked me to deliver this to you
personally. He said you should check it, make sure everything is... in
order."
"Thank you," Elara said, her voice barely a
whisper as she took the bag. A wave of emotion—relief, excitement,
nervousness—washed over her, tightening her chest. She had it. She finally had
a piece of her parents back.
Andy's grin widened. "No trouble at all, Miss Hayes.
Anything you need, you just say the word." He fished out a crisp business
card and presented it with a slight flourish. "I'm at your service. Not
afraid of tiredness or hardship!"
He was laying it on thick, but his earnestness was
endearing. In his mind, he was currying favour with the future Mrs. Thorne.
He'd seen the way the boss looked at her. When Ethan and Ben got back from
their assignments, he'd be competing with those sly foxes for brownie points.
Best to get a head start.
Elara, slightly taken aback by his fervent loyalty, accepted
the card with a polite smile. "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you,
Andy."
Sensing his cue to leave, Andy gave a quick nod and
retreated down the hallway.
Elara closed the door, her heart thumping against her ribs.
She rushed back to the sofa, sinking into the cushions as she pulled the
familiar, slightly dented pink tin box from the bag. Her hands trembled as she
lifted the lid, her breath catching.
A quick, frantic inventory later, a sigh of relief escaped
her. Her mother's delicate pearl necklace was there, along with the other small
trinkets and letters that meant the world. Nothing seemed missing.
Then, she picked up the photo album. Her mother's album. A
treasure trove of memories of her father. She opened it with the reverence it
deserved, a smile touching her lips.
But the smile vanished in an instant.
Her face froze. Her fingers, once gentle, now flipped
through the pages with increasing speed and panic. Page after page. Empty.
Where his image should have been, there were only blank spaces and faint
outlines in the dust.
By the time she reached the end, her eyes were burning, not
with tears, but with a pure, unadulterated rage. A monstrous anger surged
within her. She snatched her phone from the coffee table, her fingers flying
across the screen to call Robert Hayes.
He answered on the first ring, as if he'd been waiting,
anticipating this very call.
"Elly?" His voice was a masterclass in feigned
contrition, low and dripping with apology. "Did you receive the things? I
am so sorry. It's all Uncle Rob's fault. I've been... incompetent. I failed to
discipline Bianca properly, and I clearly didn't instil enough fear in the
household staff."
He took a dramatic pause, letting his sigh crackle down the
line. "It seems there was a... a terrible misunderstanding. Your things
weren't actually taken by Bianca."
Elara's blood ran cold.
"It was Ms. Finch and Lily," he continued, his
tone laced with manufactured regret. "They lied. The two of them came
forward that day to deliberately frame Bianca. You know how impulsive my
daughter is; she was just so angry with you in the moment that she admitted to
it rather than fight their claims. It was only last night that she finally
broke down and confessed the truth to me."
Elara listened, her grip on the phone so tight her knuckles
turned white. It was ridiculous. It was absurd. It was an insult to her
intelligence.
"A misunderstanding?" she echoed, her voice
dangerously calm. "Why would Ms. Finch and Lily, two of your most loyal
long-time servants, steal my things just to frame Bianca? What possible motive
could they have?"
She didn't wait for his fabricated answer, her voice rising,
sharp and clear as broken glass.
"And even if they did take my things, Robert, I have no
grudge with them. So tell me, why would they specifically take the photographs
of my father? Why would they care about those?"
The line went silent. She could almost hear his mind racing,
scrambling to weave another thread into his pathetic web of lies. But the web
was torn. She could see right through it. The game had just changed.