Chapter 1 - The 79-Minute Execution
Viral Hook: They thought she was just another victim. They didn't know she survived a war zone worse than their mansion.The digital clock on the mantel ticked to 6:42 p.m. Seventy-eight minutes left.
Victor Ralston didn't wait to see the slaughter. He turned on his heel, his tailored charcoal suit jacket sweeping behind him, and exited through the heavy oak doors. He left behind a room that smelled of spilled milk, expensive furniture polish, and impending doom.
"She’s going to look for a towel," Mason, the boy with the silver spoon, whispered loudly. He was already loading another pea. "They always look for a towel first."
Hannah didn't look for a towel. She didn't look at the mess on the floor, either. Instead, she unbuttoned her damp winter coat, draped it neatly over the back of a pristine mahogany chair, and rolled up the sleeves of her faded, lint-covered sweater.
"Your father said real dinner," Hannah said, her voice dropping into a low, completely unbothered register. It was the same tone she used at the diner when a drunk trucker tried to send back eggs for the third time. "What’s in the kitchen, Mrs. Alvarez?"
Mrs. Alvarez, still hovering near the door like a ghost awaiting a haunting, blinked in surprise. "The chef prepared a rosemary roasted chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, and roasted asparagus before he... well, before he locked himself in the staff quarters."
"Perfect. Bring it out. All of it. Cold or hot, doesn't matter," Hannah commanded.
"Hey! You don't give orders here!" Noah, the boy standing on the chair with the napkin cape, shouted. He puffed out his chest. "We are the Ralstons. We own this house. We owned the last nineteen losers who walked through that door."
"Correction," Hannah said, finally making direct eye contact with Noah. She didn't look angry; she looked bored. "You had nineteen losers. You haven't met a mother from Bridgeport who needs to pay rent by Friday. You think you're monsters? Sweetheart, I deal with men three times your size who throw tantrums over skim milk. You're amateurs."
Theo, the boy under the table with the butter knife, froze. His silver-gray eyes—the exact replica of his father's—peered out from beneath the white tablecloth.
"Amateurs?" Mason gasped, insulted. He snapped his fingers. On cue, Oliver, the quiet boy by the window, reached for a glass pitcher of ice water, preparing to tip it over the edge of the sideboard.
"Drop that pitcher, Oliver, and I will call the Bridgeport Police Department right now," Hannah said seamlessly, without even turning her head fully toward him.
Oliver paused, his small hands hovering over the crystal. "You don't know my name."
"I read your file in the library while waiting for my bus," Hannah lied smoothly. She hadn't read a file, but she knew rich kids always had a pattern. "And more importantly, I know your father's company makes defense tech. If I call the police because a group of six-year-olds assaulted a job applicant, the local news will have a field day. 'Defense Contractor Defeated by Quadruplets.' How do you think your dad will handle that stock drop?"
Silence descended upon the dining room. It was thick, heavy, and entirely unfamiliar to the Ralston boys. They looked at each other, their flawless synchronization suddenly cracking.
"You're bluffing," Noah hissed, though his napkin cape deflated slightly.
"Try me," Hannah said. She walked over to the table, grabbed a stray dinner roll, and bit into it. "6:50 p.m. If that chicken isn't on the table, and if you four aren't sitting in those chairs eating it with proper silverware by 7:55, I lose my job. But if I lose my job, I have nothing left to lose. And a woman with nothing to lose is a very dangerous person to play with."
May you like
She pulled out a chair, sat down at the head of the table—the seat traditionally reserved for the master of the house—and crossed her legs.
"Now," Hannah said, leaning forward. "Who wants to tell me why you're actually trying so hard to get rid of every nanny your father hires?"
