Chapter 4 - The Confession in the Mirror“Lies!”
Madison shrieked the word, lunging forward with a ferocity that caught everyone off guard. She snatched the letter from the floor and ripped it frantically into shreds, scattering the pieces across the Persian rug like confetti.
“It’s a forgery! Claire was paranoid! She was mentally unstable, everyone knows that! She imagined enemies everywhere!” Madison’s voice rose to a hysterical pitch, her hands clawing at her own hair. “Your own mother said she needed help! You all knew she was losing her grip!”
“She wasn't losing her grip, Madison,” a cold, firm voice interrupted from the doorway.
Margaret Westwood stood there, having finally made her way up the stairs. But the haughty, untouchable matriarch was gone. In her place stood an older woman whose face was etched with a profound, terrifying realization.
“Mother,” Adrian turned to her, his voice shaking with fury. “Did you know?”
Margaret flinched, refusing to meet his eyes. “I… I knew Madison wanted you. I knew she would make a better match for the family’s social standing. Claire was too independent, too—355”
“Did you know she murdered my wife?” Adrian roared, taking a step toward his mother.
Margaret closed her eyes, a tear finally cutting a path through her heavy powder. “I didn't know about the car, Adrian. God help me, I didn't know about the car. I thought… I thought Madison just pushed her out of your heart.”
Madison let out a harsh, broken laugh. She dropped her hands, letting them fall to her sides. The panic in her eyes vanished, replaced by something dark, cold, and calculating. The mask was completely gone now.
“You fools,” Madison whispered, her voice dripping with venom. She stepped back into the hallway, blocking the only exit. “Do you really think you can just pin this on me? Walk into a courtroom with a dead woman’s scribbled note and a child’s fairy tale?”
“We have the ring, Madison,” Natalie said coldly. “We have your fingerprints all over that box.”
“Wiped clean every Tuesday when I cleaned the suite,” Madison smiled—a terrifying, feral grin. “And who are the police going to believe? A grieving, unstable widower, a disgruntled sister-in-law, and a maid’s kid?”
Suddenly, the heavy double doors at the end of the corridor creaked open further.
Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the hallway sconces, was a towering figure in a tailored black suit.
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Caleb Westwood—Adrian’s younger brother—stepped into the room. His hands were shoved casually into his pockets, his expression completely devoid of surprise.
“She’s right, big brother,” Caleb said smoothly. “You don't have nearly as much as you think you do.”
