Chapter 5 - Trap Sprung
“Abort! Abort!” Naomi whispered in absolute panic, frantically trying to yank her flash drive out of the USB port, but the system had locked the device down with an automated security encryption lock.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed down the hardwood hallway.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
“Naomi, get behind the velvet curtain!” Abigail ordered in a sharp, authoritative whisper, her grip tightening around the hidden tire iron inside her bag.
“Abigail, we need to run—!”
“There’s nowhere to run,” Abigail interrupted, her eyes flashing with a cold, terrifying fire. “Hide. Let me handle my son.”
Before Naomi could argue, she slipped behind the heavy floor-to-ceiling velvet drapes covering the office’s panic room exit.
A second later, the mahogany office door swung violently open.
Spencer stood in the doorway, his face flushed with adrenaline and alcohol, a smug, condescending sneer plastered across his lips. But the moment his eyes landed on Abigail standing calmly beside his desk, the sneer vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated shock.
“M-Mom?” Spencer stammered, his color draining instantly. “What... what are you doing here? How did you get in?”
Abigail didn't flinch. She slowly zipped her leather bag, stepped away from the glowing computer monitor, and looked her son dead in the eye.
“Traffic cleared up, Spencer,” she said, her voice chillingly calm.
Spencer stared at her, his brain frantically trying to bridge the impossible gap between the weeping, subservient mother he had left at the hospital and the composed, unreadable woman standing before him in his private penthouse.
Then, his eyes darted to the computer screen, where the data export progress bar was frozen at ninety-eight percent.
Realization slammed into him like a freight train. His expression morphed from shock into a mask of pure, venomous malice. The facade of the fragile, sick boy vanished completely, unmasking the ruthless predator underneath.
“You heard me at the hospital,” Spencer said, his voice dropping all pretense of warmth, dripping with absolute contempt. “You miserable old hag. You actually spied on me.”
“I heard every single word,” Abigail replied steadily, taking a slow step forward. “Every lie. Every manipulation. Every calculated cruelty. For thirty-four years, I gave you my life, Spencer. And all I ever was to you was an ATM machine.”
Spencer let out a harsh, barking laugh, running a hand through his hair. He didn't look remorseful; if anything, he looked relieved, as if a heavy, exhausting burden had finally been lifted from his shoulders.
“Oh, spare me the martyr routine, Mom!” Spencer sneered, spreading his arms wide. “You wanted to be needed! You thrived on my weakness! Every time you played the savior, it fed your pathetic savior complex! I just monetized your addiction!”
“And the fake illnesses? The stolen thirty thousand? The forged embezzlement charges against Naomi?” Abigail asked, her voice trembling slightly, not with fear, but with mounting fury.
“Business, Mom. Pure business,” Spencer smiled coldly, taking a step toward the desk. “And speaking of business... you shouldn't have come here. You shouldn't have poked around in my files. Because now, you’ve seen things you were never supposed to see.”
He reached into his jacket pocket, and a terrifying metallic glint caught the light of the computer screen. A suppressed automatic pistol.
“Spencer... what are you doing?” Abigail asked, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“Saving myself, Mom,” Spencer said smoothly, raising the barrel of the gun directly toward her chest. “The police will find you here, breaking into my office, having a psychotic break. Maybe they’ll conclude it was a tragic accident when you pulled a weapon on me in self-defense. After all, everyone knows how unstable you’ve become since my 'terminal illness' diagnosis.”
Abigail stared down the barrel of the gun. The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the hum of the computer.
“You’d kill your own mother?” Abigail whispered, her heart breaking a final, irreversible time.
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“For twenty million dollars?” Spencer smiled, a cold, dead-eyed grin. “Wait... what did you just say?”
Before Abigail could answer, the office door flew off its hinges with a deafening crash.
