"Liam, stop this foolishness!" Eleanor shouted, her heels clicking rapidly against the marble floor as she pursued him. "You are making a scene over the ramblings of a traumatized child!"
Liam ignored her. He kicked open the heavy oak door of the study. The room smelled of expensive leather, old paper, and lavender perfume. He strode over to the heavy mahogany desk, pulling open the top drawers one by one, tossing papers and ledgers onto the carpet.
In the bottom right drawer, buried under a stack of old property deeds, lay a leather-bound red notebook.
Liam pulled it out and flipped it open.
The entries were meticulous, written in Eleanor’s elegant, sharp cursive. But they weren't household schedules. They were timeline logs tracking Liam’s daily movements, flight itineraries, medication schedules, and financial power-of-attorney drafts.
And on the final page, dated three days ago, was a handwritten note:
Marcus confirmed the liquid dosage. Once the guardianship papers are signed following the mental instability filing, the estate transfers entirely. The children will be relocated to the Swiss boarding school by November.
Liam’s blood ran cold.
He turned slowly as Eleanor stepped into the frame of the doorway. She wasn't running anymore. She didn't look panicked. She simply leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms, a small, terrifying smile touching her lips.
"You were never as smart as your father, Liam," Eleanor said softly. "Arthur built this empire, but he left it to a weak, emotional boy who couldn't even keep his wife alive."
"What did you do to Clara?" Liam demanded, his voice dangerously low, his fists clenching around the red notebook.
"Clara was nosey," Eleanor replied smoothly, taking a step into the room. "Just like you. She started asking questions about your father's will. She started looking into where the offshore trusts were moving. She didn't know when to keep her mouth shut."
"You killed her," Liam gasped, horror washing over him. "The brake failure on the highway... it wasn't an accident."
"Proving it is another story, my dear," Eleanor whispered, pulling a small silver cell phone from her pocket. "And right now, you are a grieving husband suffering a paranoid psychotic break, screaming at his late father's widow and terrorizing his own children. Who do you think the police will believe when Marcus—my attorney—presents the psychiatric evaluation draft I’ve been preparing for six months?"