Chapter 6 - Grant’s Performance
By evening, Grant Blackwood went on television.
Not the police.
Not Evelyn.
Grant.
He stood outside Blackwood House beneath tasteful lanterns, wearing a navy suit and the wounded expression of a man born knowing which camera loved him most.
Chloe stood beside him.
My sister had changed out of her wedding gown into a cream dress. Her eyes were red, but not from grief for me. They were red in the way rich women’s eyes became red before press conferences: controlled, dabbed, useful.
Julian stood behind her with one hand on her shoulder.
Ownership disguised as comfort.
The reporter asked, “Mr. Blackwood, was your fiancée poisoned at your brother’s wedding?”
Grant lowered his eyes.
“Elena has struggled for years with complicated medical and emotional issues,” he said.
Marcus muted the television before I could throw something at it.
But the captions continued.
COMPLICATED MEDICAL AND EMOTIONAL ISSUES.
There it was.
The new version of me.
Not attacked.
Not sabotaged.
Complicated.
Thomas stood near the fireplace, his face white with fury.
Agent Cole watched the screen with professional stillness. “They’re trying to undermine her credibility before charges are filed.”
Marcus unmuted the television.
Grant continued, “My mother made an unfortunate mistake with Elena’s medical device, but the claims being spread online are vicious and false. We believe this was a misunderstanding exploited by people with financial motives.”
Financial motives.
That was aimed at Thomas.
The reporter leaned forward. “Are you suggesting Thomas Ashford is involved?”
Grant gave the camera a sad, reluctant smile.
“I’m suggesting that when an elderly billionaire appears immediately after an incident and claims a vulnerable woman is connected to his fortune, questions should be asked.”
I almost laughed.
They had switched from calling me attention-seeking to calling me vulnerable because it suited them.
Chloe finally spoke.
“My sister has always wanted to feel important,” she said softly.
The room stopped.
I stared at the screen.
She looked straight into the camera.
“I love Elena. I want her to get help. But destroying my husband’s family with false accusations won’t heal whatever pain she’s carrying.”
For a moment, I did not feel angry.
I felt eight years old again, standing at the top of the stairs after my mother died while Chloe cried in Peter’s arms and told everyone I had been the one screaming.
I had carried both our grief.
She had learned to make hers profitable.
Thomas turned off the television.
No one spoke.
Then my phone rang.
Chloe.
Marcus said, “Don’t answer.”
I did.
“Elena,” she breathed. “Thank God. Are you alone?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Who’s with you?”
“People who don’t tell cameras I’m unstable.”
She started crying immediately.
It used to work on me.
“Elena, please. You don’t understand what they’re doing to me.”
“To you?”
“Julian’s family is furious. They think I helped you set this up.”
“Did you?”
“What?”
“Help me?”
Silence.
Then she whispered, “I couldn’t stop Evelyn.”
“You didn’t try.”
“You know how she is.”
“Yes. I do. Which is why it’s interesting you married into her family anyway.”
Chloe’s crying sharpened. “That is not fair.”
“No. What happened to me wasn’t fair. This is just consequences.”
Her voice dropped.
“If you keep pushing, they’ll ruin you.”
I looked at Marcus.
He had gone still.
“Was that a warning from you,” I asked, “or from your new family?”
“Elena—”
“Where is Evelyn?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you lying because Julian is beside you?”
She said nothing.
That was answer enough.
I ended the call.
Marcus immediately took the phone. “We’ll have that traced.”
I leaned back against the sofa, exhausted.
“I don’t want to be this person.”
“What person?” Thomas asked.
“The one who fights everyone.”
Agent Cole said, “You’re not fighting everyone. You’re refusing to be buried by them.”
That night, I slept in my mother’s old room.
At least, I tried to.
The room had faded blue wallpaper and a narrow writing desk beneath the window. In the top drawer, I found an old fountain pen, dried beyond use, and a pressed white orchid inside a book of poems.
I sat on the bed holding it, wondering how many times my mother had sat here afraid of Evelyn Blackwood.
A soft knock came near midnight.
Marcus stood outside.
“Sorry,” he said. “You asked to be told if anything changed.”
I had not remembered asking, but I nodded.
“What changed?”
“The lab confirmed a sedative in the wine.”
My stomach tightened.
“And the vial?”
“Same compound. Evelyn’s fingerprints are on it.”
I closed my eyes.
There was proof.
Real proof.
For one suspended second, I felt relief.
Then Marcus said, “But there’s a problem.”
Of course there was.
“What?”
“The vial also has Grant’s fingerprints.”
The room tilted.
“Grant touched it?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“We don’t know.”
My mind replayed the wedding.
Grant near the bar.
Grant warning me not to argue.
Grant finally moving only after the fake caterer exposed the glass.
My fiancé had not just failed me.
He might have known.
Marcus watched me carefully.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked down at my hands.
The engagement ring still sat on my finger.
A Blackwood diamond.
Cold. Heavy. Suddenly obscene.
I twisted it off.
For months, I had mistaken weight for commitment.
I placed the ring on the bedside table.
“Good,” I said.
Marcus’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Good?”
“If Grant touched that vial, he made my next decision easier.”
Before Marcus could answer, a sound came from downstairs.
Glass breaking.
Not loud.
Deliberate.
Marcus pulled his weapon.
“Stay behind me.”
But I was done staying behind anyone.
From below, a woman’s voice floated up through the dark house.
“Come out, Elena.”
May you like
Evelyn Blackwood had not gone to Geneva.
She had come home to my mother’s hiding place.
