Chapter 2 - THE WHISPER BEHIND THE GLASS“If you are reading this, Ethan, it means I was right, and I am already gone. Celeste didn't marry you for your heart. Look at the foundation accounts under the East wing. She isn't my nurse; she was his handler. God help us both.”
Ethan stared at the words until the ink seemed to blur and swim before his eyes. His handler. Not Clara's nurse—though Celeste had been brought into their lives during Clara's mysterious, sudden decline as a specialized private duty wellness consultant. Clara had been bedridden for six months with an undiagnosed, rapid-deterioration neurological disorder that baffled the top specialists at Johns Hopkins.
And then, one rainy Tuesday night, Clara's heart simply stopped.
Ethan’s knees felt weak. The pristine, sunlit marriage he thought he had built on the ashes of his grief was nothing more than an elaborate, premeditated trap constructed by a woman he had trusted with his dying wife and his surviving child.
"What is that?" Celeste’s voice shattered the heavy silence. Her composure was entirely gone now; the mask had slipped, revealing the cold, calculating predator beneath. She lunged forward, her fingers clawing for the photograph in Ethan's hand.
Ethan reacted on pure instinct. He grabbed Celeste by the wrist with a grip like a vise, swinging her back so hard she stumbled against the wrought-iron umbrella stand, sending brass canes clattering across the floor.
"Don't you dare touch this," Ethan growled, his voice dropping an octave into a terrifying, icy calm. He turned his gaze to Richard, who was now inching backward toward the heavy front doors. "And where do you think you're going, Richard? The real show is just getting started."
Richard swallowed hard, his hand hovering over the brass doorknob. "Look, man, I don't know anything about foundation accounts or whatever paranoid nonsense is written on that scrap of paper. I'm just an architect. Celeste hired me to redesign the master suite. That's it."
"An architect?" Ethan let out a harsh, bitter laugh that held no humor whatsoever. "You haven't drawn a blueprint since we met. You spent three months redesigning my life, inventorying my assets, and setting up offshore shell corporations in the British Virgin Islands. Don't insult my intelligence."
Celeste picked herself up off the floor, smoothing her silk blouse with trembling hands. The panic in her eyes had curdled into a reckless, defiant malice. She let out a sharp, hysterical laugh that echoed off the marble walls.
"You think you're so smart, don't you, Ethan?" Celeste sneered, her chin tilting up defiantly. "The great tech visionary who thinks he can code his way out of human nature. You were so blind! You sat in your home office night after night writing algorithms while your wife slowly wasted away upstairs, completely unaware that the very woman nursing her back to health was the one administering the slow-release paralytic."
Sophie let out a piercing shriek, burying her face in Ethan's jacket. Ethan felt a rush of blood in his ears—a deafening roar of pure, unadulterated rage.
"You killed her," Ethan whispered, taking a slow, menacing step toward Celeste. "You murdered Clara."
"I didn't have to lift a finger," Celeste smiled coldly, backing away toward the curved staircase as Ethan advanced. "Clara was weak. She trusted me. Just like you trusted me. By the time the doctors figured out it wasn't a natural neurological collapse, her body was already cremated, per her final, signed instructions—instructions that I conveniently helped her draft."
Ethan lunged forward, but Richard threw himself between them, tackling Ethan around the waist. "Run, Celeste! Get the flash drive from the study!"
Ethan grunted as he slammed into the floor, dragging Richard down with him. With a surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, Ethan drove his elbow backward into Richard’s ribs, hearing the satisfying oof of air leaving the man’s lungs. He rolled on top of Richard, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and slamming his head against the hardwood floor until Richard went limp, unconscious.
When Ethan scrambled back to his feet, panting heavily, the foyer was empty.
May you like
Celeste was gone.
From upstairs, the sharp click of high heels echoed down the landing, followed by the heavy, metallic thud of a hidden door sliding open within the master suite.
