Chapter 7 - The Confrontation
Grant agreed to the plan. He left through the front door with his luggage, making a grand show of saying goodbye to Vanessa. Claire watched from the window as his town car drove down the long driveway.
But Grant didn't go to the airport. Two hours later, he slipped back into the mansion through the basement service entrance, guided by Claire, and hid in the small observation closet adjoining Noah’s room—a room originally designed for baby monitors and medical tracking equipment.
At exactly 4:00 PM, the regular time for Noah’s medication, Vanessa walked into the west wing. Claire was in the room, pretended to change the pillowcases.
Vanessa carried a small silver tray with a glass of water and a prepared syringe. Her expression was cold, devoid of any maternal warmth.
"Time for your medicine, you little anchor," Vanessa muttered, walking over to Noah's wheelchair. "Your father is gone, so we don't have to play the happy family game today."
Noah shivered, pulling away as far as his weak muscles would allow.
"Don't move," Vanessa snapped, grabbing his chin roughly with her manicured hand. "You think that little maid can save you? She’s nothing. If you don't take this, I'll just have to ensure another 'accident' happens near the stairs. And next time, there won't be any laundry baskets to save you."
Claire felt a cold fury ignite in her chest. She stepped forward, her voice ringing clear through the room. "Stop it, Vanessa."
Vanessa froze, turning her head slowly to look at Claire. A cruel laugh escaped her lips. "You're still here? I told you to stay downstairs. You are fired, Claire. Effective right now. Get out of my house before I call the police for trespassing."
"I'm not going anywhere," Claire said, pulling out her phone and recording the scene. "And I know what's in that syringe. It's N-12. I have the lab reports. I know you've been poisoning him."
Vanessa’s face twisted into an ugly mask of pure malice. "Who do you think the police will believe? A low-life maid or the wife of Grant Whitman? I will tell the world you tried to poison my stepson, and I have the money to make it a fact. You are nothing but a bug under my shoe!"
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"What about me, Vanessa?"
The closet door swung open, and Grant Whitman stepped into the room. His face was a mask of absolute, devastating fury. His eyes were fixed on the syringe in Vanessa’s hand and her grip on his son's face.
