Chapter 6 - THE DAWN OF RECKONING
The morning sun broke over the sprawling emerald lawns of the Sterling estate, casting long, golden fingers across the manicured gardens. It looked like a postcard of domestic perfection.
Inside the master suite, Patricia woke up with a triumphant smile.
On the high-resolution monitors in the bunker, I watched her stretch luxuriously in the king-sized bed. She got up, walked over to the floor-to-ceiling mirror, and practiced a look of fragile, grieving concern—the expression she planned to wear when I supposedly called from London to delay my return, or when she pretended to worry about my sudden “financial difficulties.”
She dressed in an expensive cream-colored Chanel blazer and matching pencil skirt, looking every inch the sophisticated corporate bride.
At 8:30 AM, she walked down the grand staircase, her heels clicking rhythmically against the Italian marble.
“Rosa!” she called out sharply, expecting the basement to echo with compliance. “Rosa, get up here! Prepare breakfast for the girls and bring me my espresso in the study. We have a very busy morning ahead.”
Silence answered her.
Patricia frowned, her sharp eyebrows pulling together. She walked toward the kitchen. The lights were on, the counters were pristine, but the room was empty.
“Rosa?” she called out again, her voice losing its honeyed edge and hardening into ice.
She pulled out her phone and dialed. It rang once, twice, three times—and then went straight to voicemail.
A flicker of unease crossed Patricia’s face for the first time. She turned on her heel and marched upstairs toward the children's bedroom. She reached into her blazer pocket for the heavy brass key, slid it into the lock, and turned it.
Click.
She flung the door open.
“Get up, you little—!”
The words died instantly in her throat.
The room was completely empty. The beds were neatly made—not by Patricia’s rough standards, but with crisp hospital corners. Martina’s stuffed rabbit sat perfectly propped up on the pillows. The closet doors stood wide open, revealing empty hangers.
Patricia froze. Her face lost all its color, turning a pasty, sickly gray.
“What... what is this?” she whispered, stepping into the room.
She rushed to the bedside table. Her half-empty glass of red wine from the night before was gone. In its place sat a single, crisp white envelope with her name written across it in bold, uncompromising black ink.
With trembling fingers, Patricia picked up the envelope, tore it open, and pulled out a single sheet of heavy cardstock.
Printed neatly across the paper was not a letter—but a high-definition still photograph.
It was a screenshot from the security monitors showing Patricia standing over Martina and Daniela the previous morning, her face twisted in that cruel, demonic snarl, her hand snatching the rabbit away.
Beneath the photo, a single line of text was typed:
May you like
“The flight to London was canceled, Patricia. But your permanent flight out of my life is about to depart. See you in the study in five minutes.”
Patricia dropped the paper as if it had burst into flames.
