Chapter 7
Arthur stopped a few feet away from Martha’s wheelchair, his dark eyes scanning her frail form with a mixture of disdain and nostalgic cruelty. He leaned slightly on his walking stick, the polished wood reflecting the dim light of the overhead chandelier.
“You look older, Martha,” Arthur remarked casually, as if they were discussing the weather rather than a decades-old deception. “The grand lady of the estate, reduced to sitting in a metal chair, waiting for a son who is currently locked away in his own basement.”
Martha lifted her chin, summoning every ounce of aristocratic dignity she possessed despite her fear. “Julian will find a way out. He is far more resourceful than you or Victoria give him credit for. Whatever game you two are playing, it will end the moment the authorities arrive.”
Arthur let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Authorities? Martha, my dear, do you honestly believe local law enforcement is going to intervene in a private family dispute within an estate this heavily insulated? Victoria and I have spent the last six months untangling your husband’s empire. Every offshore account, every title deed, and every dark secret has been legally transferred into our custody.”
“You stole everything,” Martha whispered, the realization hitting her with the force of a physical blow. Her husband’s legacy, built on questionable ethics perhaps, but meant to secure their family’s future, had been systematically dismantled from the inside out.
“We didn’t steal anything,” Arthur corrected sharply, his expression turning intense and protective in a twisted, obsessive way. “We merely reclaimed what was rightfully ours before your husband used his influence to ruin my life and drive me into exile. Victoria was simply the instrument of execution—and she played her part brilliantly.”
Martha’s mind raced. The swimming pool, the locked basement, the missing safety deposit box—it was all part of a meticulously executed plan to eliminate her and trap Julian, leaving no witnesses to contest the forged transfer documents.
“Why keep me alive this long?” Martha asked, her voice steadying despite her racing heart. “If you wanted me gone, why not let me drown in the pool?”
Arthur leaned in closer, the scent of damp wool and old tobacco washing over her. “Because a sudden drowning raises awkward questions during a probate hearing. We needed you to sign the final relinquishment forms voluntarily, under the gentle persuasion of losing everything you hold dear. And if you refuse, well… accidents happen every day in a house this large.”
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Before Arthur could finish his threat, a sharp, metallic sound echoed from the far end of the hallway—a muffled shout followed by the heavy thud of a shoulder slamming against reinforced steel.
Arthur’s head snapped toward the sound. A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his face. “Impressive,” he muttered. “The boy is stronger than I calculated.”
