Chapter 3 - THE RAT IN THE MAZEI stood frozen in the doorway of the hidden library, the old man’s words hanging in the chilled air like a threat wrapped in velvet.
Henry Ashford—the patriarch who built half of Wall Street and allegedly lost his mind a decade ago—was looking at me with razor-sharp lucidity. There was nothing senile about the wicked glint in his faded blue eyes.
“You’re Henry,” I said, keeping my hand firmly on the brass doorknob, ready to bolt at the slightest sound.
“And you are the Brooklyn girl,” the old man chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. He tapped a gnarled finger against the thick stack of yellowed documents on his desk. “Eleanor vetted you for six months. Clean credit, no skeletons, desperate enough for social ascension to swallow your pride. She thought you’d be a compliant little doll.”
“Your family is insane,” I said bluntly. “Every single one of you.”
Henry threw his head back and laughed, a full-bodied sound that lacked any warmth.
“Insane? No, my dear. We are survivors. In our world, power doesn't pass to the kindest; it passes to the most ruthless. And right now, Julian is drowning in his mother’s shadow. That’s why she needed you. Not to be a wife. To be a buffer.”
“A buffer against what?” I took a cautious step into the room, my curiosity finally overriding my self-preservation instinct.
Henry pointed a shaky finger at one of the massive corkboards covering the wall. Pinned to it were dozens of legal files, financial statements, and medical reports. At the center of the board was a photograph of a stunning, dark-haired woman smiling sadly into the camera.
Margaret Ashford. Julian’s first wife.
“That is Noah’s mother,” Henry whispered, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss. “Official family history says she suffered a tragic mental breakdown five years ago, signed away her parental rights, and fled to Europe where she died in a car accident.”
The hair on the back of my neck stood up. “And the truth?”
“The truth?” Henry sneer-smiled. “Margaret didn't flee. She tried to take Noah and leave this estate. She tried to expose how Eleanor launders Ashford capital through charitable trusts. So Eleanor had her committed to a private psychiatric facility upstate, stripped her of her name, and manufactured a ghost.”
My stomach violently plummeted. The other ones. When Noah had said, “She looks nicer than the other ones,” he hadn't meant previous fiancée auditions. He had meant previous attempts to find a compliant mother figure who wouldn't ask questions when the truth came out.
“Why are you telling me this?” I demanded, staring at the old man. “If Eleanor finds out you’re talking to me—if she catches me in here—won't you be in danger?”
Henry’s expression darkened, the humor vanishing entirely from his face.
“Because Eleanor wants to control the next generation through Noah, and Julian is too weak to stop her. But you? You have fire in your eyes, girl. The same fire Margaret had before they broke her.” He shoved the stack of papers closer to the edge of the desk. “Sign these, Ava. Grant power of attorney over the Ashford trust to me, and I’ll give you the leverage you need to tear this empire down from the inside.”
Rule Six: Do not sign any document presented by Henry Ashford without first consulting Eleanor.
The warning on the cream-colored card suddenly flashed in my brain with blinding clarity. It wasn't a protective measure; it was a leash. Eleanor didn't want me talking to Henry because Henry held the keys to the kingdom’s darkest skeletons.
Before I could answer, a sharp, metallic click echoed from the doorway behind me.
I whipped around.
May you like
Julian was standing in the doorway, his face pale, his eyes wide with absolute horror as he looked at me standing beside Henry’s desk.
“Ava,” Julian breathed, his voice trembling. “What have you done?”
