Chapter 7 - The Poison in the Tea
The silence in the cellar was so thick that Adrian could hear the steady drop of water from the stone ceiling.
"What did you say?" Adrian rasped.
"Look at the journals, Adrian!" Celeste urged, stepping closer, pointing at the mahogany box. "My mother didn't just invent the clotting factor. She and Lenora were friends in 1994! Lenora funded my mother's lab secretly using her own trust money because Malcolm refused to support women in research! When my mother died, Lenora tried to stop Malcolm from seizing the patents. Malcolm had her committed to a private facility in Vermont for six months until she signed the power of attorney!"
Adrian felt the floor tilt beneath his feet.
His mother hadn't been confused last night because of age.
When Lenora looked at Celeste and said, “You weren’t supposed to come back,” she wasn't speaking to a stranger. She was speaking to the memory of Dr. Evelyn Vance—the woman she had failed to protect thirty years ago.
"My mother hid these original journals here before Malcolm took the lab," Celeste whispered, her eyes burning with tears. "She gave Lenora the key. Lenora hid it in her bedroom safe thirty years ago. Last night, I didn't steal Lenora's credentials, Adrian. She gave them to me."
Adrian dropped to his knees beside the mahogany box, his hands shaking violently as he opened the secondary folder resting beneath the lab notes.
Inside were four medical prescription forms stamped by Dr. Harrison Vance—Margot’s personal physician—dated over the last ninety days. Each form authorized the purchase of transdermal scopolamine patches under Lenora Vale’s name.
Beside the forms was a signed agreement between Margot Vale and a representative of Helvetic Pharma, agreeing to transfer the full patent portfolio of Project Kestrel for one hundred and twenty million dollars—payable directly into a private account registered in the Cook Islands under Margot’s sole name.
Margot hadn't just been trying to save the family firm.
She was stealing the last remaining piece of Malcolm’s secret empire before the board could audit the accounts.
Footsteps echoed from the top of the stone stairs.
Heavy, deliberate, multi-person footsteps.
"How touching," a sharp, aristocratic voice called down into the gloom.
May you like
Margot Vale stepped into the light at the bottom of the stairs, flanked by two burly private security guards wearing tactical black uniforms. In her hand, Margot held a sleek, silver smartphone, its screen glowing with a live feed of the estate's security camera network.
"I must admit, Celeste," Margot said, her voice dripping with venomous disdain, "you were far more thorough than I anticipated. I thought you were just a ambitious little climber trying to secure a ring. I had no idea you were Evelyn Vance's bastard."
