Chapter 3 - Shadows of the Past
By midnight, the Ashford Estate was bathed in the red and blue flashing lights of emergency vehicles. The guests had been questioned and cleared to leave, leaving behind an eerie, quiet mansion filled with half-eaten meals and abandoned champagne glasses.
Celeste Vaughn had been taken into custody, charged with attempted murder and grand larceny. But as I sat in my father’s study, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves and the heavy scent of old paper, I knew the nightmare was far from over.
My father sat in his leather armchair, looking smaller and older than he ever had in his life. He stared at his trembling hands, unable to process the betrayal.
“I was going to build a life with her, Evelyn,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. “She made me feel… alive again after your mother passed. How could I have been so blind?”
“She’s a professional, Dad,” I said, sitting across from him and placing a warm cup of tea on his desk. “She spent months researching you before she ever ‘accidentally’ bumped into you at the gallery gala in Paris. It was all staged.”
Suddenly, my phone buzzed on the desk. It was an encrypted message from David, a private investigator I had hired weeks ago when I first suspected Celeste wasn't who she claimed to be.
I opened the file. My stomach dropped.
Evelyn, the message read. The blood work from your father’s recent lab tests came back from our private lab. His elevated digitalis levels aren't from tonight’s cake. He has been receiving micro-doses of toxin for at least eight weeks. Furthermore, Celeste Vaughn isn't her real name. Her real name is Clara Vance. She was linked to the death of a wealthy real estate developer in Chicago four years ago. The case was ruled an accidental cardiac event.
A cold chill ran down my spine.
I looked at my father. The cake tonight wasn't an isolated incident—it was meant to be the grand finale. She had been slowly killing him for months, weakening his heart so that the final dose in the cake would look like a sudden, predictable failure of an already failing organ.
“Dad,” I said, keeping my voice firm and steady. “Tomorrow morning, we are going to the hospital for a full detoxification treatment.”
He looked up at me, his eyes filled with sorrow. “And what about the foundation, Evelyn? What about the contracts she convinced me to sign last week?”
May you like
I leaned forward, my lawyer instincts taking over completely.
“She thought she was playing an easy target,” I said. “She thought she was dealing with an aging billionaire and his quiet, grieving daughter. But tomorrow, we tear down every single piece of paper she ever touched.”
