Chapter 1 - THE LOCKDOWNThe crystal chandelier above the mahogany dining table hummed, vibrating slightly against the howling November gale outside. Thirty-two pairs of eyes—lawyers with razor-thin smiles, corporate vultures smelling blood in the water, and aristocratic relatives who only showed up when champagne was poured—remained completely frozen.
Vivienne stood up so fast her crystal water glass tipped over, spilling a dark puddle across the linen table runner like fresh arterial blood.
“Damian, this is insane,” she hissed, her voice vibrating with a desperate, razor-sharp pitch. She tried to slip her hand behind her back, but Marco’s heavy hand was already resting lightly on the back of her chair. Marco didn’t draw a weapon. He didn’t need to. At six-foot-four, with a scar running from his ear down into his collar, Marco moved with the terrifying, absolute authority of a man who buried problems professionally.
“Nobody leaves,” I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper, yet it cut through the room like a scalpel. “Marco, seal the perimeter. All exterior doors, all gate guards, all security feeds routed to my study. If a fly tries to leave Greystone Manor tonight, swat it.”
“Right away, Mr. Vance,” Marco muttered, his dark eyes locking onto Vivienne with chilling clinical detachment.
Vivienne turned to the table, her sapphire gown shimmering under the chandelier lights as she forced a fragile, trembling smile for the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, please forgive my fiancé. The stress of the merger, the weather... he’s hallucinating. A tragic loss in the household has upset him deeply—”
“Shut up, Vivienne,” I said.
The two words dropped into the room like lead weights. The silence that followed was absolute.
I looked down at three-year-old Rosie. The little girl stood barefoot on the Persian rug, clutching her worn-out brown rabbit, her bottom lip quivering. Sofia, her mother, had cleaned this house for eight years. She had known every dark secret buried within these walls, every misplaced file, every private phone call. And now, less than three weeks after a sudden, convenient "stroke" took her life in her small cottage down the lane, her most prized possession—a ring she kept locked in a wooden box—was glittering on the finger of the woman I was supposed to marry in two months.
“Rosie,” I said, softening my voice as much as I possibly could. “Come here, sweetheart.”
The little girl hesitated, looking up at Marco, then at Vivienne’s glaring eyes. Slowly, she padded forward, her tiny footsteps echoing softly against the wood. I knelt down, ignoring the expensive wool of my tailored suit, and looked into her tear-stained eyes.
“Can you tell me,” I asked gently, “who else came into your mommy’s room before she went to the hospital?”
Rosie sniffled, wiping her nose with her sleeve. “The pretty lady with the shiny hair.” She pointed a tiny, trembling finger straight at Vivienne. “She gave Mommy bitter water in a cup. And then Mommy went to sleep and didn't wake up.”
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A collective, audible gasp swept through the thirty-two guests.
Vivienne’s face drained of every drop of color, turning the exact shade of bleached bone.
