Sophia's hands shook as she shoved the papers back into the folder. Her knuckles ached from holding the fake death certificate, her own, but she managed to put everything roughly in place just as Richard stepped into the doorway.
"Sophia?" His voice was calm, almost casual, but his sharp eyes betrayed suspicion as they scanned the desk—and her.
Think. Act normal. Play the naive wife he expected.
"I was looking for some aspirin," she said, surprised her voice sounded steady. "I have a headache after coffee with Jessica and thought you might have some in your desk."
Richard's eyes stayed on the folder, and her heart nearly stopped. Had she put it back right? Could he tell she'd moved it?
"Aspirin?" He stepped closer, his cologne strong and expensive. But underneath it, she smelled something else—Jessica. His betrayal was everywhere. "There's a whole medicine cabinet in the bathroom, darling."
"I know, but I was already here, and I thought…" She trailed off, slipping into the helpless-wife act. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone through your things."
His expression changed slightly, suspicion mixed with calculation. He was watching her, looking for any weakness.
"How was coffee with Jessica?" he asked casually, moving around the desk to stand in front of her.
"It was lovely," Sophia said, forcing a smile so tight it hurt. "She's seeing someone new. She seems happy."
"Really?" His tone sounded calm, but the weight behind it made her stomach twist. "Anyone I know?"
The question was a trap, she knew. Did he want her to reveal suspicion? Or was he testing how much she knew?
"She wouldn't tell me who," Sophia said carefully. "She's secretive about her… affairs."
Richard laughed. It crawled under her skin, real amusement. He was enjoying this: the game, the control, and that she had no idea
"Yes, I know Jessica," he said, lifting his hand to her face, thumb brushing her cheek in fake tenderness. "Always hiding things."
Sophia bit her cheek to stop herself from pulling away. The man touching her face was the one planning her death.
"Richard," she asked softly, pretending to care, "is everything okay? You seem… tense."
His eyes narrowed. "Tense? Why do you say that?"
""You've been working so much—coming home late, leaving early. I just worry about you," she said, letting a little emotion show. "I miss being with you."
"Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, pulling her close. Her instincts told her to run, but she stayed. "You're right. I've been distracted. A big, sensitive project at work is taking all my attention."
Yes, she thought bitterly. Planning my murder would take up all your time.
"Can I help?" she asked, hating herself for falling into the supportive-wife act.
"Actually," he said slowly, "there is."
Her blood ran cold, but she stayed calm. "Of course. Anything."
"See Dr. Morrison next week."
The name felt familiar.
"The psychiatrist," Richard said, rubbing her back. "Remember? We talked about your anxiety… your depression. The dark thoughts you've been having."
Dark thoughts? Sophia's stomach twisted. She'd never said any of that. Then she remembered the folder—the fake psychological profile, the story he'd made up. He was setting up her "instability" for when her death went public.
"I don't remember talking about that," she said carefully.
"Of course you don't, sweetheart. Memory issues, confusion… Dr. Morrison specializes in cases like yours."
"Cases like mine?"
"Women under extreme stress. Women who might… hurt themselves without help."
Every word was poison in a caring disguise. He was calling her murder "suicide prevention."
"I've made an appointment for Monday," he said. "Dr. Morrison is discreet and understanding. He'll help you with your feelings."
Monday, just four days away. Her fake death certificate was two weeks out, but he was speeding things up.
"That's thoughtful of you," she managed, "but I'm not sure I need—"
"It's arranged," Richard said sharply. "Jessica thinks it's a great idea too. She's been worried about you."
Of course she was—they were working together.
"Actually," he added, cold and calculating, "Jessica suggested updating your will while you're stressed. Just in case."
Sophia froze.
"My will?"
"Nothing dramatic," he said, smiling without warmth. "Just adjustments. Making sure everything goes to the right people. I've called our lawyer."
"When?"
"Tomorrow afternoon. Two o'clock."
The same time he met Jessica. The same time he planned to move up her murder.
Sophia's chest tightened. Everything was speeding up—the psychiatrist, the will, the timeline. He wasn't waiting two weeks anymore. He planned to end her life in days.
"You seem upset," he said, thumb brushing her jaw with fake tenderness. "Having one of those episodes Dr. Morrison mentioned? The paranoia? The fears?"
Dr. Morrison mentioned? When did he make all these lies about her?
"I'm fine," she whispered.
"Are you sure? You look pale and shaky," he said, venom in his smile. "Lie down. Rest before dinner."
Not a suggestion.
"Okay," Sophia said, keeping calm.
"Good girl." He kissed her forehead, heavy with threat. "I'll be in my study. Try to sleep."
As she went to the bedroom, legs unsteady, she heard him on the phone:
"Vincent? It's me. Move faster."