CHAPTER 002

BETTY

“Suspect?” I blurt under my breath, my voice barely audible above the sound of my heartbeat.

Eleanor shoots me a look sharp enough to draw blood, then motions to one of the maids. “Take Grace to the other room,” she barks.

The maid hesitates for a split second before obeying.

“Mommy?” Grace’s small voice trembles, and my chest tightens.

“It’s okay, love,” I whisper, forcing a smile I don’t feel, motioning for her to follow, as her little hand slips from mine.

Once she’s out of sight, I turn back to Eleanor, confusion gnawing at my stomach. “What is going on, Eleanor?”

She descends the last five steps of the grand staircase with a grace that only money and malice can teach, her heels clicking against the floor like a warning.

“You dare ask me that?” she sneers. “You think I wouldn’t find out? Where is it?”

“Where is what?” My voice quivers, crossing my hands over my chest.

“The brooch,” she snaps.

I blink, utterly lost. “What brooch?”

Her steps quicken, and she reaches me, the scent of her expensive perfume filling the space between us as her hand shoots out, seizing my wrist.

The pain is immediate and searing.

“The one you stole,” she hisses, her grip tightening.

“I haven’t stolen anything from you! I’m not a thief.” The words tumble out of me in a panic, but they sound small and fragile, like they already know they won’t be believed.

Eleanor’s eyes gleam, triumphant and cruel. “Don’t lie to me. You sold it, didn’t you? To pay for your mother’s latest relapse? This is how you repay us after six years of our generosity? By stealing from us?”

Her nails dig deeper into my skin, and I wince, fighting to free myself, but she only tightens her hold.

“Please…you’re hurting me. I didn’t take anything.”

“I don’t believe you,” she spits. “We’ll see what your room says about that.” She turns her glare to the maid hovering by the wall. “What are you waiting for? Go turn that room upside down!”

But before anyone moves, the heavy front door swings open and the sound of his footsteps steals the air from the room.

Nathaniel stands framed by the doorway, black suit, crisp tie, briefcase in hand.

His presence fills the space like a shadow stretching across the floor, and Eleanor releases me just enough for me to straighten, my wrist throbbing under the sleeve of my coat.

“What’s going on here?” His deep voice ripples through the silence, cool and commanding.

“She stole from me,” Eleanor answers quickly, too quickly. “My mother’s brooch—the one I told you about, remember?.”

Nathaniel’s jaw tightens, his gaze shifting to me, looking handsome and perfect as always.

“How could you do this?” he asks, each word measured and lethal. “How could you steal from us?”

My eyes squint at him, and my mouth goes dry. “You think I did this?”

He closes the distance between us, his hand wrapping around my other arm, not violently, but firmly enough that I can feel the judgment in his touch. “Why wouldn’t I? You are the only person in this house desperate enough to do it.”

The words slice deep, and right through the fragile parts, I bleed in places no one can see.

Tears threaten to blur my vision as I look up at him, but I blink quickly, pushing them back. “I didn’t do this, Nathaniel. I was at my mother’s funeral the whole day. You know that.”

For a small moment, I see a flicker of something human in his eyes, but it vanishes as quickly as it came.

He yanks my hand aside and steps back, smoothing his tie as though I’ve dirtied him just by standing near. “You always have excuses, Betty, and also, are you insinuating that my mother is lying?”

The humiliation burns hotter than the tears threatening to fall, and my lips part to respond, but then a steady, commanding voice echoes down from the staircase. “What is with all the shouting?”

We all turn, and Harriette Blackwell is standing at the top of the stairs, wrapped in pearls and diamonds, her silver hair pulled into a perfect twist.

Her posture is straight, her expression calm, but her presence commands immediate silence.

Eleanor’s tone softens instantly. “Mother, I was only…”

Harriette lifts a hand, her way of silencing her. “I asked what’s going on.” Her eyes, sharp and clear, shift to me.

“It’s Betty,” Eleanor starts again, her voice dripping venom. “She stole from me.”

Harriette’s gaze returns to her daughter-in-law, her lips thinning. “And you know this for certain?”

Eleanor hesitates, and before she can double down on her accusation, Harriette’s steps echo through the hall as she descends. “Is this true, Nathaniel? Has your wife stolen from your mother?”

Nathaniel clears his throat, and his hand pauses mid-adjustment on his cufflinks, fingers tightening just once before he forces them to move again.

His shoulders draw back, an instinctive attempt at gathering himself, but the tension in his jaw betrays him. He never looks small, never looks unsure… except in front of her.

“I… just walked in, Grandmother,” he finally answers, his words careful, measured, like he’s choosing the safest path through a minefield. “I found them arguing, and…”

She cuts him off with a simple shake of her head. “So you just walked in and decided to side against your wife without proof?” she asks, disappointment laced in her voice. “Is that what I taught you, Nathaniel? To throw accusations at people without being certain?”

A faint flush creeps up Nathaniel’s neck, and I know this look. It’s the look of a man being scolded by the only person he fears.

“I’m sorry, Grandmother,” he mutters before he turns, his eyes meeting mine briefly, cold and unreadable. “I’ll go say hello to Grace.” He kisses Harriette’s cheek, then looks back at me. “We’ll talk later.”

His words sound like a threat, not a promise, and he walks away, leaving the scent of expensive cologne and resentment in his wake.

Harriette turns to Eleanor, her expression hardening. “And you,” she says, “I have no words for you.”

Eleanor’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. For once, she’s speechless.

Harriette’s gaze then softens as she looks at me. “Come, my dear,” she says, stretching out her hand. “Walk with me to the rose garden and tell me about the funeral.”

Warmth blooms in my chest where moments ago there was only pain, and I take her hand, the trembling in mine easing under her gentle touch.

We walk away, and I can feel Eleanor’s glare burning holes in my back, but I don’t care. Her plan to humiliate me, and remind me I don’t belong here, has failed.

The rose garden stretches ahead once we step out, perfectly manicured, rows of blush and ivory petals swaying gently under the afternoon breeze.

Harriette slows her steps, her hand still holding mine, her thumb tracing small circles over my skin.

“How many times must I tell you, my dear? You need to stand up for yourself,” she says softly, her tone more weary than scolding.

I manage a faint smile. “I’m fine. I’m just glad you stepped in when you did.”

She sighs, rubbing my arm gently, her eyes searching mine. “You know I won’t always be around to protect you, Betty.”

I look at her, the only person who has been kind to me in this house, and the words spill out before I can stop them. “Then let me leave with Grace, Harriette. I won’t ask for anything else…please.”

Her steps falter, and I see a shift in her expression, the soft affection hardening into something cold and practiced.

“I’ve told you before,” her voice becomes firm, “that is not an option for you, Betty. The Blackwell name cannot be associated with such failures. I’ve made that clear.”

She turns, her pearl earrings glinting as she resumes her pace down the gravel path, leading me deeper into the garden.

I follow silently, the ache in my chest heavier than before.

I love this woman. I truly do. She has never been cruel to me, not once. She took me in as family when no one else wanted me, and treated me with kindness I’ll never forget.

And most importantly, she adores Grace, spoils her even. But Harriette Blackwell lives by one unshakable truth: perception is everything.

To her, the Blackwell legacy is a fortress built on appearances, and I am just another stone meant to keep it standing. Divorce, scandal, imperfection…those things are for people who can afford to be human.

So when she tells me it’s not an option, what she really means is: I will live in this cage forever.