Chapter 23: The Sister’s Eyes

DR. KAELEN THORNE-VANE

Beatrix didn’t wait for an invitation.

She stepped into the room, the dark navy wool of her tailored coat moving softly around her. Behind her, two private security guards entered the corridor, dragging the unconscious body of one of Julian’s guards away from the doorway.

Julian’s incompetence had finally forced the matriarch to act.

My grip tightened around the brass letter opener in my hand. The urge to drive it into her throat ran through me.

This woman had destroyed my father. She had bought up his debts piece by piece until he was left with nothing but a locked study, a cold night, and a bullet in his brain.

“Put that ridiculous letter opener down, Thorne,” Beatrix said.

She stopped a few feet away, resting both hands on her ivory-handled cane.

“If I wanted you dead, my men would have shot you before I entered this room. Lower it.”

Beside me, Wren didn’t move.

Instead, her hand slipped into mine. Her fingers locked around mine, cutting through the cold fear running through my body.

“Grandmother,” Wren said smoothly, “you brought your own security. How dramatic, even for you.”

“Save the performance, Emerence,” Beatrix replied.

Her sharp green eyes moved over her granddaughter.

“I’ve watched you play the hysterical lunatic for six months. You were always too ambitious for your own good, just like your father.”

Her gaze shifted toward me.

“But Julian was a fool. He thought he was driving you mad, yet he couldn’t even keep his own wife under control.”

Then she looked directly at me.

“And you. Dr. Kaelen Thorne-Vane. Or should I say Kaelen Thorne? The pathetic ghost of Arthur Thorne’s failed lineage.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize your father’s eyes?”

The air seemed to tighten around us.

“You destroyed him,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Your father destroyed himself by mistaking sentiment for strategy,” Beatrix replied without remorse. “He was weak. Just as Julian is weak.”

She lifted the remote in her hand and tapped the screen.

“Julian’s little plan to take you to the Isle of Wight is canceled. I’m taking over the transfer myself. The car will be at the rear entrance in twenty minutes.”

Her gaze hardened.

“You will both enter it quietly, or the police will receive a complete, unredacted file on your underground medical network, Doctor, along with an arrest warrant for Emerence on suspicion of corporate embezzlement.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Wren snapped.

She stepped beside me, shoulder to shoulder.

“It would destroy Ashford stock before the Heritage Gala.”

“The family legacy survives everything, Emerence,” Beatrix said softly.

Her eyes turned cold.

“Even you.”

Before I could respond, a soft gasp came from the doorway behind her.

We all turned.

Lyra stood frozen in the corridor.

She wore a cream cashmere sweater, her honey-blond hair falling in soft waves around her face. In her hand was a silver tray holding a porcelain teacup, a pathetic prop for the devoted, long-suffering half-sister she pretended to be.

But her amber eyes weren’t on Beatrix.

They were fixed on our joined hands.

The tray began to shake.

The teacup rattled against its saucer.

“Lyra,” Beatrix ordered without turning. “Go back to your room.”

“No…”

Lyra’s voice trembled.

But it wasn’t fear.

Her sweet expression disappeared, revealing the jealousy and bitterness underneath.

She placed the tray on the console table with a sharp clatter and stepped into the room.

“You…” she breathed, staring at Wren.

Her eyes moved from our intertwined hands to Wren’s clear blue eyes, then back to me.

“You aren’t sick.”

Her voice grew louder.

“You were never sick.”

“Get out, Lyra,” Wren said coldly.

“I knew it!” Lyra screamed.

Her voice echoed through the manor.

“I knew you were spending too much time in here, Doctor! Every night hours behind locked doors! Julian thought you were treating her, but you were lying to him!”

Her face twisted with rage.

“You were sleeping with her!”

“Silence, child,” Beatrix snapped, raising her cane.

“No, Grandmother!”

Lyra pointed directly at Wren.

“Julian spent months trying to break her! I gave him the drops! I switched her tea every morning while she looked at me like some pathetic, broken dog!”

Her breathing became faster.

“She was supposed to be gone! She was supposed to be locked away so the estate would fall to me!”

Wren didn’t even blink.

“You were always an amateur, Lyra. Working with scraps Julian tossed under the table.”

Lyra’s breath caught.

She stepped backward, then pulled a sleek gold phone from her cardigan.

“Julian isn’t the only one who records things in this house.”

A twisted smile spread across her face.

“I planted a hidden camera in the library ceiling three weeks ago. I wanted to make sure Julian wasn’t stealing from my share of the embezzlement scheme.”

My stomach dropped.

“I saw everything,” Lyra whispered.

Her thumb hovered over the screen.

“I saw Dr. Vane hand you the encrypted satellite terminal. I recorded you accessing the Swiss accounts.”

She looked at me.

“And I have footage of him kissing you against that bed.”

Beatrix’s eyes narrowed.

For the first time, genuine shock crossed her face.

“Lyra,” she said quietly. “Hand me the phone.”

“No!”

Lyra backed toward the door.

Her eyes were wild, consumed by jealousy and the realization that everything she wanted was slipping away.

“Julian is unconscious in the library, but I just hit broadcast.”

She lifted the phone.

“The entire board of directors, the Ashford family trustees, and the Metropolitan Police financial division are receiving the unencrypted file right now.”

She looked at Wren.

Her smile turned cruel.

“If I can’t have the Ashford fortune, Wren, I’m going to watch you burn with it.”

A sharp siren suddenly erupted from downstairs.

The estate’s security system came alive.

Red emergency lights flooded the hallway.

Heavy footsteps thundered up the grand marble staircase.

Not Beatrix’s guards.

Police.

Tactical units were breaching the front entrance of Ashford Manor.

Beatrix turned toward us.

Her jaw tightened.

For the first time, the Duchess looked genuinely cornered.

“It seems,” she whispered over the deafening alarms, “the game has ended sooner than any of us planned.”