Chapter Twelve: The Reckoning

The hospital room is a sterile cage of white light and the rhythmic, mocking beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor. I am tethered to the world by clear plastic tubes, my breath coming in shallow, fragile hitches. 

Every time I close my eyes, I taste that metallic copper, a ghost of the tea that nearly stopped my heart.

Arthur had stayed for hours, his face aged by a decade, pacing the room and clutching my hand until the police and the Reynolds Group board members practically dragged him away to handle the "public relations" of his wife’s collapse.

But Ethan never left.

I drift in and out of a drug-induced haze, but every time I open my eyes, he is there. He isn't sitting in the guest chair. He is standing at the head of my bed like a dark, vengeful statue, his shadow stretching across the linoleum floor.

A nurse enters, her rubber soles squeaking on the tiles. She reaches for the IV bag to adjust the drip.

"Don't touch it," Ethan’s voice cuts through the room like a shard of glass.

The nurse freezes, her hand inches from the tube. "Sir, I’m just checking the saline—"

"I said, get away from her," Ethan growls, stepping into the light. The exhaustion hasn't softened him; it has sharpened his edges. "Until my people arrive, no one touches her. Not a doctor, not a nurse."

The nurse palters, looking at the door for help, but one look at Ethan’s lethal expression sends her scurrying out of the room.

Ethan turns back to me. He doesn't know I’m awake, or perhaps he doesn't care. 

He reaches out, his hand trembling slightly - a rare crack in his armor - as he traces the line of the IV tube, checking for any signs of tampering.

The door opens again. This time, it’s a man in a sharp black suit carrying a silver briefcase. Behind him are two more men who look less like doctors and more like soldiers.

"Dr. Vance," Ethan says, his voice a low, vibrating sound of authority. "Tell me you found it."

The man, Ethan’s private toxicologist, sets the briefcase on the rolling tray. 

"The blood samples you sent from the terrace... It's exactly what we feared, Reynolds. It’s a derivative of Thallium, masked with Digitalis. It’s designed to look like a heart attack brought on by stress or'exhaustion'"

Ethan’s jaw tightens so hard I hear the bone creak. "The same cocktail that killed my mother."

"Incredibly similar," Vance admits, adjusting his glasses. "Whoever is doing this knows the Reynolds family history. They aren't just trying to kill her; they’re following a blueprint."

Ethan leans over me, his face inches from mine. He smells of expensive tobacco and a cold, sharp anger. 

He reaches out, his thumb brushing over the bruise on my neck - the mark he left - before moving up to my pale, dry lips.

"You think you can just die on me, Sapphire?" he whispers, his voice thick with a dark, obsessive hunger. "You think I’ll let someone else take the life that belongs to me?"

I let out a soft, broken moan, my eyes fluttering open.

Ethan’s gaze snaps to mine. For a split second, I see a flash of pure, unadulterated agony in his grey eyes - the look of a man watching his world burn. Then, the mask slams back down.

"You’re awake," he says, his grip on my hand tightening until it almost hurts. "Good. Because I’m going back to the mansion. And by the time I’m done, the person who put that cup in your hand will be praying for the mercy of a quick death."

"Ethan... calm down please," I croak, my voice sounding like it's been dragged over gravel.

"Don't 'Ethan' me," he snarls, leaning down until his forehead rests against mine. "You’re my property, Sapphire. And I don't lose what’s mine. If I have to burn that house to the ground with everyone in it to find out who did this, I will."

He stands up, nodding to the two guards by the door. 

"No one enters this room except my father. If anyone else tries, put them in the morgue. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," they respond in unison.

Ethan looks at me one last time, a predatory, possessive promise in his eyes. "Sleep, Mother. When you wake up, the halls will be quiet again. I’m going home to collect a different kind of tax."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Reynolds Mansion - One Hour Later

The air in the grand foyer of the Reynolds mansion is usually filled with the scent of lilies and expensive wax. Tonight, it smells like fear.

The entire household staff - thirty-two people in total - is lined up in the center of the vast living area. The chefs in their white tunics, the maids in their starched aprons, and the gardeners with dirt still under their fingernails. They stand in a jagged, trembling line under the weight of the massive crystal chandelier.

Ethan stands before them, his charcoal suit jacket discarded, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He doesn't look like a billionaire heir. He looks like a butcher.

The silence is absolute, broken only by the rhythmic thump of Ethan’s heavy leather boots as he paces the length of the line.

"My mother was a kind woman," Ethan begins, his voice dangerously low, almost a whisper that carries to every corner of the vaulted ceiling. "She treated this staff like family. And yet, she died in this house, in a bed much like the one Mrs. Reynolds occupies, while her heart gave out for 'unknown reasons.'"

He stops in front of the head chef, a man who has worked for the family for twenty years. Ethan leans in, sniffing the air near the man's face.

"The tea," Ethan says, his voice a terrifyingly soft purr. "Who prepared the tray this morning?"

"I... I set the pot out, sir," the chef stammers, sweat rolling down his face. "But I stepped away to check the ovens. Anyone could have—"

Ethan’s hand flashes out, his fingers wrapping around the chef’s throat and slamming him back against the wall. The staff screams in unison.

"I don't want 'anyone'," Ethan hisses, his face inches from the terrified man's. "I want the person who put Thallium in my stepmother's cup. I watched my mother wither away because of 'accidents' like this. I watched her heart fail while the doctors called it 'natural causes'."

"You've been crying, Simon. Is it out of grief for my stepmother... or is it because you know exactly which spice rack holds the Thallium?"

"I—I would never, Mr. Ethan!" the chef stammers, his face turning a ghostly shade of grey. "I loved the mistress!"

"Love is cheap," Ethan snarls. "Greed, however... greed is expensive. Someone in this room was paid. Someone in this room felt the weight of a heavy envelope and decided that a young woman's life was a fair trade for a retirement fund."

He releases the chef, who collapses to the floor, gasping. Ethan turns back to the line, his eyes scanning every face with lethal intent.

He reaches the center of the line where the housekeepers stand. His eyes, cold and sharp as surgical steel, scan their hands.

"Everyone, hold out your hands," he commands.

Thirty-two pairs of hands lift into the air. Most are shaking. Some are bone-white.

Ethan walks behind them, his presence a predatory shadow. "Thallium is a patient killer. It requires a steady hand. It requires someone who can watch a person wither away day by day and still offer them a fresh cup of tea with a smile."

He stops behind a middle-aged maid whose fingers are twitching uncontrollably. He leans down, his lips inches from her ear.

"You’re sweating, Elena. The air conditioning is set to sixty-eight degrees, yet you’re drenching your collar. Tell me... did you see who went into the pantry this morning?"

"No, sir! I was... I was in the laundry!" she sobs.

Ethan grabs her wrist, his grip like an iron shackle, and hauls her to the center of the room. The staff gasps, a collective shudder running through the line.

"Listen to me!" Ethan bellows, his voice exploding like a thunderclap. 

"Zola Reynolds is my property. Every drop of blood in her veins belongs to me. Every breath she takes is a gift I have granted her. If she dies, I will not call the police. I will not wait for a trial."

He looks at each and every one of them, his gaze promising a violence that goes beyond the law.

"I will lock every door to this mansion. I will turn off the cameras. And I will find out who did this by taking you apart, piece by piece, until the truth leaks out with your blood. You have one hour to leave a name in the library. Anonymous, written, whispered - I don't care. If I don't have a name by midnight, I start with the person whose hands are shaking the most."

He releases the maid, who collapses into a heap on the marble floor.

"Mrs. Higgins," Ethan says, his voice sharp. The head housekeeper flinches. "You’ve been here the longest. You saw my mother die. Tell me... does Zola’s illness look familiar to you?"

“Yes sir” Mrs. Higgins replies, looking sad.

Ethan nods and looks up toward the master suite, toward the room where he left the black lace thong and the note. His possessiveness has curdled into something far more dangerous. He doesn't just want only her body anymore; he wants her life. And he will kill anyone who tries to steal it from him.

"Everyone get out of my sight," he hisses. 

As the staff scrambles away, Ethan turns to the darkened windows. His reflection stares back at him - a man who is becoming the very monster he used to hunt. 

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the torn white lace thong he took from Zola's private suite at the club. He clenches it in his fist, the delicate fabric disappearing in his grip.

"I told you, Sapphire," he whispers to the glass. "I don't share. Not even with death."