Chapter 12
"You arrogant fool," Eleanor hissed, her voice vibrating with a raw, primal rage that stripped away all pretense of elegance. The polished accent vanished, replaced by the harsh, desperate tones of her past. "I gave you a dynasty! I made you untouchable! Without me, you were just a weak, grieving boy hiding behind your father’s shadow!"
"You didn't build anything, Eleanor," Julian said coldly, stepping around the table toward her. "You parasitized a tragedy. You locked away my sister’s memory and ruled over a house built on graves."
Panic flickered in Eleanor’s eyes as she realized the game was entirely lost. There was no recovery from this, no charming lie that could rebuild the empire of lies she had constructed over two decades. Her gaze darted frantically toward the double doors leading to the hallway, calculating her escape route. Without warning, she lunged sideways, grabbing a heavy silver candelabra from the sideboard and swinging it with vicious force toward Julian’s head.
Julian ducked instinctively, the heavy silver grazing his shoulder with a dull thud, sending burning candles tumbling across the floor to scorch the Persian rug. Guests screamed, scrambling away from the table in absolute terror, tripping over chairs as they fled toward the main foyer.
Before Eleanor could swing the candelabra a second time, a figure burst through the conservatory curtains at the far end of the room. It was Clara, her face pale with determination, still clutching the leather ledger against her chest. Behind her stepped two local police officers summoned from the gates by a quiet alarm Julian had triggered before entering the dining room.
"Drop the candelabra, Eleanor," one of the officers commanded loudly, unholstering his firearm as he strode into the opulent room.
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Eleanor froze, the heavy silver trembling in her grip. She looked around the ruined dining room—at the fleeing guests, the smoking carpet, the cold gaze of her husband, and finally at the young maid who held the damning evidence of her crimes. With a choked sob of pure frustration and defeat, Eleanor dropped the candelabra. It hit the floor with a loud, metallic crash, rolling away across the scattered plates and uneaten food.
The officers closed in, their heavy boots echoing on the floorboards as they grabbed Eleanor by the arms, clicking cold steel handcuffs around her wrists. She didn't fight them anymore. Her posture crumpled, the rich green dress suddenly looking less like a symbol of wealth and more like a shroud enclosing a fallen prisoner.
