As they dragged a sobbing, screaming Beatrice away, I lowered the microphone. I turned my back on the wreckage of the party, feeling a profound, terrifying sense of satisfaction. I had protected my child. I had burned the threat to the ground.
But as I stepped off the DJ platform, I locked eyes with Hunter. He was standing near the pool, watching his mother being shoved into the back of a squad car. He wasn’t crying. His ten-year-old face was twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred, his eyes dark and calculating, and as he slowly raised a hand to touch the stolen diamond locket still hanging around his neck, a cold realization washed over me that while the queen had been captured, the poisonous seeds she had planted had already taken deep, dangerous root in the boy left behind.
Chapter 5: The Ashes
Three weeks later, the mansion was finally quiet. The deafening echo of Beatrice’s existence had been systematically scrubbed from the property. I had hired a team of professional packers to clear out her suite and Hunter’s room. Every piece of extravagant furniture she had bought with my money, every designer handbag, every garish painting—it had all been boxed up and donated to a local women’s shelter. The house felt incredibly empty, but the air felt ten pounds lighter.
I had resigned from my overseas posting the Monday after the arrest. I took an indefinite leave of absence, citing family emergencies. For the first time in my daughter’s life, my laptop was closed, my phone was on silent, and my calendar was entirely blank.
I sat at the vast marble kitchen island, the afternoon sun streaming through the bay windows. Beside me, Lily was perched on a stool. I was carefully helping her paint the heavy fiberglass cast on her leg. We were using bright, acrylic paints, turning the ugly white medical necessity into a canvas of yellow shooting stars and deep blue galaxies.
She giggled as the brush tickled her knee. It was a fragile, hesitant sound, but it was a sound of healing.
The jarring ring of the landline shattered the peace.
I sighed, setting the paintbrush down. I walked over to the wall console. The caller ID read: Westchester County Correctional Facility.
I hesitated. I could ignore it. I had ignored the previous twenty calls. But something told me I needed to sever the final, fraying thread of her hope. I pressed the speaker button.
“This is a collect call from an inmate at…” an automated voice announced. I pressed one to accept.
Static hissed through the speaker, followed immediately by the sound of desperate, ragged weeping.
“Victoria? Victoria, oh god, thank you for answering,” Beatrice’s voice crackled, devoid of any of its former haughty arrogance. She sounded small, terrified, and entirely broken. “Please, Victoria. You have to get me out of here. They are treating me like an animal. The food is… the women here… they look at me…”
I watched Lily from across the kitchen. She had stopped painting, her small shoulders tensing at the sound of her aunt’s voice. I offered her a reassuring smile and mouthed, It’s okay. “Victoria, please,” Beatrice begged, playing her final, desperate card. “I’ll do anything. I’m sorry. I was stressed. I made a mistake. But you have to post my bail. I can’t stay here another night. We are blood! You can’t do this to family!”
I leaned closer to the microphone. My voice was soft, measured, and entirely devoid of pity.
