Chapter 4: Poison Behind a Cup of Tea

Ravelle pressed her fingers together as they felt as cold as ice while stepping out of Kyle's private study. Her chest churned, no longer with sadness, but with measured anger.

With calm steps carefully controlled to make no sound, she intended to head to the clean kitchen for a glass of water. However, as she passed the servants' corridor leading to the service kitchen, a faint conversation brought her movements to a halt.

“Have you already mixed the medicine into her drink? Mr. Kyle asked you to prepare warm tea for that woman, didn't he?”

It was Jessica's voice.

Her tone was no longer sweet or professional as usual. It sounded cold, commanding, and filled with the authority of a mistress of the house.

“Yes, Ma'am,” replied a woman's voice that was extremely familiar to Ravelle's ears.

It was Soraya, the head housekeeper who had worked at this residence for ten years—the woman who had always acted sweet and whom Ravelle trusted the most to handle domestic affairs.

Ravelle concealed herself behind a shadowed pillar in the corridor.

Her heart pounded rapidly, but her mind immediately processed the information at high speed.

'Ma'am? Soraya calls Jessica "Ma'am" behind my back?'

“Good. Make sure she drinks every last drop,” Jessica hissed again. “Not a single drop must remain.”

“Yes, Ma'am. I added the same dosage you always have me mix into her food and drinks.”

'Always? The same dosage?'

Those two phrases struck Ravelle's consciousness like lightning in broad daylight.

In an instant, the pieces of her medical puzzle over the past several years were finally answered.

The chronic exhaustion.

The sudden bouts of vertigo.

Even the diagnosis of infertility from the family doctor recommended by Kyle...

'So they poisoned me? These bastards deliberately destroyed my health from the inside?'

Ravelle clenched her fists inside her coat pockets until her nails nearly pierced her skin.

Instead of confronting them and wasting her energy, she stepped back as lightly as a feather and returned to the second floor without making the slightest noise.

Several minutes later, a gentle knock sounded on the master bedroom door.

“Ma'am? It's me, Soraya. I've brought the warm tea Mr. Kyle ordered.”

Ravelle adjusted her expression in front of the mirror within seconds.

She put down her bag, lay on the bed, pulled the blanket over herself, and wore a pale, exhausted expression.

“Come in, Soraya. The door isn't locked.”

The door opened.

Soraya entered with a warm smile that now looked like the face of a monster in Ravelle's eyes.

The housekeeper placed a tray holding a cup of tea releasing a strong jasmine aroma on the bedside table.

“Here is your tea, Ma'am. Drink it while it's warm so your headache can ease. Mr. Kyle specifically instructed me to make sure you finish it,” Soraya said attentively.

Ravelle glanced at the cup with a deliberately weary gaze.

“Just leave it there, Soraya. The smell is a little too strong for my headache. I'll drink it once I feel a little better.”

Soraya seemed hesitant, her eyes flickering nervously toward the cup.

“But, Ma'am...”

“I said leave it there,” Ravelle interrupted.

Her voice was not loud, yet there was a coldness characteristic of the Branson bloodline that instantly caused Soraya to shrink back.

“I want some peace and quiet.”

“Yes, Ma'am. I'll take my leave.”

Soraya bowed and quickly left the room.

The moment the door closed completely, Ravelle immediately rose from the bed.

She did not transfer the liquid with trembling hands.

She moved tactically.

She took an airtight sterile sample bottle that she always kept in her personal medicine kit, then used a clean pipette to transfer all of the poisoned tea without leaving a single stain outside the cup.

After safely storing the sample bottle inside a hidden compartment in her bag, Ravelle carried the now-empty teacup into the bathroom, rinsed it thoroughly under running water, then refilled it with a small amount of warm water mixed with the remaining tea residue from the small teapot, creating the illusion that she had finished every drop.

'This sample is going straight to the private laboratory of the Branson family's hospital,' Ravelle thought sharply.

Before she could even straighten her clothes, the bedroom door opened without a knock.

Kyle entered with a charming smile that now made Ravelle's stomach churn with nausea.

Kyle immediately approached the bed and stroked her hair.

“How are you feeling, Darling?”

Kyle kissed Ravelle's forehead.

Ravelle used every ounce of her sanity to stop herself from vomiting directly into the man's face.

She forced a faint smile that looked weak.

“A little better.”

“That's good. Get ready for tonight, hm? I've already reserved a table at the most exclusive restaurant downtown. We're going to celebrate our tenth anniversary in style,” Kyle said enthusiastically.

“Of course, Kyle. I'm looking forward to it.”

Kyle smiled in satisfaction, completely convinced that the woman before him was still under his full control.

“Then I'll head downstairs to review some reports Jessica brought. Get some rest.”

The moment Kyle left, Ravelle immediately got up.

She changed into an elegant maroon formal dress with a sharp-cut design, applied a thin layer of red lipstick to conceal her pale complexion, and slung her Hermès bag over her shoulder.

She had to get this sample to the laboratory immediately.

As Ravelle descended the grand staircase to the first floor, she saw Kyle, Jessica, and Calysta still in the family room.

Seeing Ravelle fully dressed and apparently preparing to leave, Calysta immediately jumped off the sofa.

The seven-year-old girl looked at Ravelle with the demanding expression she always displayed whenever she didn't get what she wanted.

“Aunt Jessica! I'm hungry! I want lunch right now! Tell that woman to make pasta for me before she leaves!” Calysta shouted while rudely pointing at Ravelle.

Ravelle's footsteps stopped on the final stair.

Her eyes narrowed sharply.

'Aunt Jessica?'

Ravelle sneered inwardly.

'Behind my back she calls her "Mommy Jessica," and now in front of me she's changed it to "Aunt Jessica" on that bitch's orders.'

Jessica immediately stood up, putting on a falsely panicked expression as she hurriedly pulled Calysta behind her.

“Calysta, Sweetheart, don't talk like that... Mrs. Ravelle is your mother.”

Kyle, who had just stepped out of his study, heard the commotion and immediately approached with a deep frown.

He looked at Ravelle with a flash of displeasure, believing that his "wife" was intimidating his beloved child and secretary.

“Ravelle, what is this now? Why are you looking so harshly at a little girl?”

Ravelle did not allow herself to be provoked into shouting like a cheap woman.

Instead, she straightened her shoulders and looked at the three of them in turn with absolute superiority—the gaze of a true Branson looking down upon a collection of insects.

“If she's hungry, call one of the kitchen staff. Or ask this highly capable 'secretary' to cook,” Ravelle replied.

Her voice was flat, clear, and exceptionally cold.

“I have to leave now. I have a lunch appointment.”

Ravelle walked past them toward the front entrance.

However, Kyle's raised voice stopped her in her tracks.

“A lunch appointment? With whom?!”

Kyle's tone became dominant, possessive, and filled with the authority of a husband accustomed to dictating every aspect of his wife's life.

For ten years, Ravelle had never stepped out of this house without his written permission or approval.

“Since when did you dare leave the house without asking for my permission first, Ravelle?! This morning was obviously different—you were out buying a gift!”

Ravelle stopped directly in front of the mansion's massive double doors.

She slowly turned around and glanced at Kyle over her shoulder with the thinnest, coldest, and most unfamiliar smile he had ever seen in his life.

“Since today, Kyle! Alright then, I'm leaving now. My friend is already waiting for me!”

Kyle froze where he stood.

That brief reply had been spoken without raising her voice and without any anger, yet somehow it carried an icy chill that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

For the first time in ten years, Kyle felt as though the woman standing before him was not the obedient Ravelle he knew, but a powerful stranger capable of destroying him in an instant.