Chapter Thirteen: The Judas Note

The mansion is eerily silent. The clock in the foyer strikes midnight, its chime echoing like a funeral bell. Ethan stands in the center of the library, the air thick with the smell of old leather and tobacco.

The room is a sanctuary of Reynolds history, but tonight, it feels like a graveyard.

The single silver tray on the desk holds a folded scrap of paper.. No signature. No return address. Just a jaggedly torn scrap that looks like it was ripped from a kitchen ledger.

Ethan reaches for it. His hands, usually steady enough to perform surgery, are tight. He unfolds the paper.

The handwriting is a frantic, slanted scrawl:

"Arthur Reynolds is the killer. He poisoned his late wife too - it wasn’t a heart attack. He asked me to poison young Mrs. Reynolds just like the first one. Please, don't let him find out that you know."

Ethan’s world stops.

The paper crinkles in his grip as his fist slowly closes. 

The Digitalis-Thallium cocktail. The weak heart. 

The slow, agonizing decline of his mother. 

He had spent ten months blaming the "Gods" and "bad luck," after her death only to find out the monster was his father.

A low, guttural sound - half-sob, half-growl - escapes Ethan’s throat.

Arthur. The gentle billionaire. 

The man who played the grieving widower so perfectly that he’d fooled the world. He hadn't rescued Zola; he’d selected a new victim. A fresh, beautiful body to watch wither away under his care.

Ethan’s eyes turn a lethal, molten silver.

The door to the library creaks open. Arthur stands there, looking every bit the weary, concerned billionaire. He’s loosened his tie, his face a mask of fatherly fatigue.

"Ethan? You're still up?" Arthur asks, stepping into the dim light. He looks at the paper in Ethan's hand. "Did someone actually leave a note? What does it say?"

Ethan’s muscles lock. Every instinct in his body screams to lung across the desk and tear his father’s throat out. But he can't. Not yet. If he kills Arthur now, Zola has no legal protection. She’ll be cast out, or worse, investigated.

Ethan slowly slips the note into his pocket, his face hardening into a mask of terrifying calm.

"Nothing, Father," Ethan says, his voice a low, vibrating rasp.

"I miss Zola," Arthur sighs, walking over to the bar to pour two glasses of brandy. He hands one to Ethan.. "I just want her home, Ethan. I want to take care of her myself. The hospital is so... impersonal. I think the Lake House would be perfect for her recovery once she’s discharged. Just me and her."

Ethan’s grip on the edge of the desk is so hard the wood begins to groan. 

The Lake House. The place where no one would hear her scream. The place where his mother accidentally died.

Ethan looks at the golden liquid in the glass - the same way Zola must have looked at that tea. He doesn't drink.

"The hospital is safer for now," Ethan says, his tone perfectly level, masking the fact that he wants to wrap his hands around Arthur's throat. "At least until my private security finishes sweeping the kitchen staff. I won't have her coming back to a compromised house."

"You’re being very thorough, son," Arthur says, his eyes narrowing slightly as he sips his drink. "Almost... possessive. One might think you care for your stepmother a bit more than is appropriate."

Ethan meets his father’s gaze. It is a clash of two predators - one hiding in the light, one fueled by the dark.

"I care about the Reynolds reputation, Father," Ethan replies, his voice like a blade being drawn. "And I care about my inheritance. If your wives keep dying of 'mysterious illnesses,' the board will start asking questions that even your lawyers can't answer. I'm protecting the family. Nothing more."

Arthur chuckles, a dry, hollow sound. "Of course. Always the businessman."

"I'll be staying close to the master suite. Just in case she wakes up and needs... assistance.," Ethan adds, turning toward the door. 

"Good idea," Arthur says, turning back to the windows. "We must keep her safe, Ethan. She’s far too precious to lose so soon."

Ethan walks out of the library, his skin crawling. He doesn't go to sleep. Instead, he heads to the kitchen.

One by one, he begins to empty the canisters of tea, the jars of spices, and the medicine cabinets into heavy biohazard bags. He doesn't care if the staff is watching. He doesn't care if Arthur hears the commotion.

He isn't just a son anymore. He is a warden. And as he locks the door to the pantry and pockets the only key, Ethan realizes the "Tax" has just doubled.

If he is going to save Zola, he has to own every breath she takes. He has to be the one who feeds her, the one who watches her sleep, and the one who ensures that the only person allowed to hurt her... is him.