Chapter 2 - The Taste of BetrayalThe sizzling sound of the dying plant filled the vast bedroom like a tiny, malicious whisper.
Celeste Romano clutched her throat, her diamonds trembling against her collarbone. "Vincent... what are you... Adrian, explain this! What kind of experiment is this?" she demanded, her voice climbing an octave into panic.
Dr. Vale didn't look at Celeste. His eyes were fixed on the old man in the bed, calculating angles, escape routes, and the exact dosage of betrayal he had delivered over the past six months. "A patient's neurological state fluctuates under heavy sedation," Vale said, his voice remarkably steady despite the sweat beading on his forehead. "Visual hallucinations are common. Mr. Moretti is experiencing a paranoid episode induced by oxygen deprivation to the frontal lobe. Harlon, assist me in administering a sedative before he harms himself."
Harlon Pike did not move. He stood holding the empty medicine glass, his expression unreadable, eyes shifting from the smoking plant to Vincent’s unblinking gaze. Harlon was a survivor; he didn't serve doctors, and he didn't serve mistresses. He served the man who held the keys to the vault.
"Harlon," Vincent said, his voice dangerously low as he set the blue bowl down. "Did you hear what my doctor called me?"
"He called you Mr. Moretti, sir," Harlon replied carefully.
"No," Vincent corrected, coughing once—a real cough this time, sharp and dry. "He called me a patient. But last night, while I was lying here pretending to drown in my own lungs, I heard someone else in the hallway. Someone wearing Italian leather shoes that cost more than a small car. Someone talking about my vault, my signature, and my funeral."
Celeste stepped forward, a masterclass in theatrical offense. Her eyes welled with perfectly timed tears. "Vincent! Are you accusing me? After I have spent every waking hour by your bedside, managing the household, keeping the vultures at bay while your ungrateful sons fight over scraps in New York? How can you look at me and listen to this... this domestic and her beggar child?"
She pointed a trembling, manicured finger straight at Clara, who flinched as if struck.
"The maid," Celeste spat, her voice dripping with venom, "brought up trash from the incinerator. Look at what they're doing, Vincent! They are planting evidence. That child didn't wander in here by accident. They were sent. It's a setup by the corporate rivals to invalidate the transfer of attorney!"
Lily blinked, her lower lip trembling. She didn't understand the big words, but she understood that the pretty lady with the shiny necklace was shouting at her mommy. Lily stepped forward and planted her small body squarely in front of Clara’s legs, looking up at Celeste with fierce, four-year-old defiance.
"My mommy is not a trash," Lily announced loudly. "And your face looks like fake plastic."
A strangled gasp escaped Harlon’s throat, and for a fleeting second, the corners of the stoic bodyguard’s mouth twitched upward before he instantly flattened them into a grim line.
Vincent Moretti let out a short, dry bark of laughter that turned into a hacking fit. Clara rushed forward, ignoring the danger, and gently patted the old man’s bony back, murmuring soothing nonsense just as she did with Lily when she had nightmares.
Vincent caught her wrist. His grip was surprisingly firm.
"You didn't put poison in the soup," Vincent murmured, looking directly into Clara’s terrified, red-rimmed eyes.
"No, sir," Clara whispered, her voice shaking violently. "I swear to God, Mr. Moretti. It was just chicken and ginger. I... I saw the trash can outside when I was coming in through the service gate. I saw... I saw the photo frames."
The room went absolute zero.
Celeste’s face drained of every drop of makeup-covered color. "What trash can?" she hissed.
"The one behind the East Garage," Clara said, her voice gathering a quiet, desperate courage. "The big green one. Someone threw out three heavy silver frames. The glass was smashed. It was... it was pictures of you, Mr. Moretti, with your late wife, and... and your younger self. They were broken."
Vincent’s gaze slowly shifted from Clara to Celeste. The temperature in the room dropped so fast it felt like winter had broken through the double-paned glass.
"Frames," Vincent whispered. "The ones from my private study. The ones locked in the mahogany cabinet that only three people in this house have the key to."
Dr. Vale slowly backed toward the door, his hand sliding behind his back to feel for the brass knob. "Mr. Moretti, this is descending into farce. I am calling an ambulance. Your mental stability is compromised, and I refuse to be held liable for—"
"Harlon," Vincent said softly.
"Yes, sir?"
"Lock the doors."
Click.
May you like
Harlon’s hand moved faster than a striking snake. He didn't pull a gun; he simply turned the heavy brass key in the master bedroom door, pulled it out, and slid it into his breast pocket.
"Nobody leaves this room," Vincent said, sitting up entirely against the black pillows, the blanket falling away to reveal the silk pajamas that bore the crest of a sleeping giant waking up. "Especially not my trusted physician."
