Chapter 4 - The Dead Woman’s LedgerCeleste scrambled backward on the plush carpet, her nails clawing at the expensive rug as Ethan stood up, clutching the heavy flash drive and the thick manila folder. Her eyes were wide with sheer, unadulterated panic. The mask was completely gone now; she looked cornered, feral, and desperate.
"Don't look at that," Celeste whispered, her voice trembling. "Ethan, please. We can make a deal. Fifty-fifty. You keep your company, I take the offshore accounts, and we pretend none of this ever happened. We can co-parent Sophie—"
"Co-parent?" Ethan laughed, a harsh, humorless sound that lacked any warmth. He flipped open the manila folder. Inside were medical records, bank statements, and certified lab reports detailing toxicology screens from Clara’s autopsy—reports that had somehow been suppressed by a corrupted county coroner.
"Clara didn't have an aneurysm," Ethan said softly, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper as he read the lines of text. "She was being slowly poisoned with digitalis. Micro-dosed over six months. And who was her personal private nurse during her recovery at home? Who prepared every single meal and prescribed her daily supplements?"
Celeste stopped crawling. She slowly rose to her feet, her expression shifting from panic to a chilling, placid calm. She smoothed down her silk blouse and let out a low, dark laugh.
"You really think you're the hero of this story, don't you, Ethan?" Celeste tilted her head, a manic glint in her eyes. "Clara was weak. She was standing in the way of what was rightfully ours. But do you really think I acted alone? Do you think a woman like me, with nothing but a modest background, could afford a high-end corporate takeover, forged passports, and a corrupt county coroner without backing?"
Ethan’s blood ran cold. "Who else is involved?"
Before Celeste could answer, a sharp, metallic click echoed from the doorway behind Ethan.
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Ethan slowly turned his head. Standing in the doorway of the master suite, holding a polished, suppressed 9mm handgun with practiced ease, was Richard. Gone was the clumsy, panicked designer. His posture was rigid, military-precise, and his eyes were completely dead.
"Put the folder down, Ethan," Richard said smoothly, leveling the barrel directly at Ethan’s chest. "Game over."
