Chapter 2 - THE ANATOMY OF A LIE“You’re listening to a delusional toddler!” Vivienne shrieked, finally breaking her composure as she lunged toward the table, her fingernails clawing at the polished mahogany. “A three-year-old brain invents monsters! She lost her mother; she doesn’t know what she’s saying! Damian, look at me! Look at us! We built this empire together, and you’re going to destroy everything over the word of a dead maid’s brat?”
I stood up slowly, towering over her. The proximity revealed what the candlelight had hidden: the faint, unmistakable smell of bitter almond lingering on her breath. Cyanide. Or something very close to it. The realization hit my chest like a physical blow. Sofia hadn’t died of a natural stroke. She had been murdered. And Vivienne hadn't just stolen a ring; she had executed a witness.
“Marco,” I said, not taking my eyes off Vivienne. “Take Miss Sterling to the lower study. Confiscate her phone, her purse, and anything else she has on her person. If she so much as breathes wrong, restrain her.”
“Damian, you can’t do this to me! My father will ruin you! The board will strip your shares by morning!” Vivienne screamed as Marco’s massive hands clamped onto her arms. She thrashed like a trapped animal, her sapphire gown tearing at the shoulder, revealing the vicious, frantic energy of a cornered predator.
“Your father is currently under federal investigation for securities fraud, Vivienne,” I replied coldly, leaning in close so only she could hear. “And as for the board—they answer to whoever holds the majority stake. Which happens to be me.”
As Marco dragged her kicking and screaming through the service doors, the dining room erupted into chaotic whispers. Lawyers were already pulling out encrypted phones, business partners were quietly packing their briefcases, and my cousin Charles looked like he was about to vomit his lobster bisque.
“Clear the room,” I told the remaining security guards. “Escort every guest to the west wing parlor. Provide them with whatever they want, but nobody touches a telephone, and nobody leaves the estate until I give the word.”
Within five minutes, the grand dining room was completely empty, save for little Rosie, who was still clutching her rabbit.
I crouched back down beside her. “Rosie, where is the wooden box now?”
“In the trash,” she whispered. “The lady threw it in the big black bin outside the kitchen when Mommy was sleeping.”
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My heart hammered against my ribs. I picked the little girl up, feeling how impossibly light she was, and carried her toward the kitchen. If Vivienne had panicked and thrown evidence into the trash compactor, we needed to find it before the night was through. But as I walked down the dim corridor toward the service wing, I realized something far more terrifying: Vivienne hadn't acted alone. Greystone Manor had a security system designed to keep people out, but tonight, it had been used to lock everyone in.
And someone was already watching us from the shadows of the upper balcony.
