Chapter 20: The Toast

The announcement was a hammer blow that shattered the room’s polite murmur into stunned silence. Richard looked like he’d been struck. He opened his mouth, then closed it, his eyes darting frantically between Catherine and his mother.

Eleanor recovered first. She wheeled herself forward, her silver brocade rustling like armor.

"Announcement?" she said, her voice dripping with ice. "Catherine, dear, you're interrupting the toast. Richard was just about to thank our generous donors."

"The donors can wait," Catherine said. She didn't look at Eleanor. She kept her gaze fixed on Richard, her hand still resting possessively on his arm. "Tell them, Richard. Tell them about the new direction for Vane Construction."

I stood by the staircase, frozen. This wasn't the erratic behavior of a mentally ill woman. This was a coup.

Richard swallowed hard. He looked at the crowd—the city council members, the bank executives, the people who held the purse strings of his empire. He was trapped.

"Yes," he croaked. "Well. As Catherine says... we are exploring some... exciting new ventures."

"More than ventures," Catherine corrected him, her voice smooth and dangerous. "A restructuring. To honor the legacy of the Blackwood acquisition."

A murmur went through the crowd. The Blackwood deal was ancient history, the foundation of the Vane fortune. Mentioning it was like digging up a grave.

Eleanor’s face went white. She gripped the arms of her wheelchair until her knuckles popped.

"Catherine," she warned, low and lethal. "You are tired. You need to go back to your room."

"I'm not tired, Eleanor. I'm awake. Finally." Catherine turned to the crowd, raising her empty hand as if holding a glass. "To the future. And to the past that made it possible."

"To the future," a few confused guests echoed.

Catherine smiled. Then she turned back to the bar. She reached for a crystal flute of champagne.

"Oh, and Richard," she said casually, as if it were an afterthought. "Pour me a drink. My hands are shaking."

Richard obeyed instantly. He grabbed a bottle, his own hands trembling so violently the neck chattered against the glass. He poured the champagne. It foamed over the rim, spilling onto the white tablecloth.

Catherine watched him, her eyes glittering with malice. She didn't reach for the glass.

Instead, she reached for his hand.

She wrapped her fingers around his, guiding the glass to her lips. It was intimate. Terrifying. The gesture of a puppeteer moving a marionette.

She took a sip, her eyes never leaving his face.

"Delicious," she whispered.

Then, deliberately, she squeezed his hand. Hard.

The glass shattered.

Crystal exploded outward. Champagne and blood sprayed across the pristine white linen.

The room gasped. Eleanor hissed a curse.

Richard stared at his hand, at the shard of glass embedded in his palm. Blood welled up, dark and fast, dripping onto the tablecloth in a steady, rhythmic *tap-tap-tap*.

He didn't pull away. He didn't cry out. He just stood there, staring at Catherine with a look of abject terror.

Catherine didn't even flinch. She wiped a speck of champagne from her lip, her smile unchanged.

"Oh dear," she said, her voice flat. "Look what you've done."

She released his hand. It dropped to his side, blood streaming down his fingers, staining his cuff.

"Clean it up, Richard," she commanded softly.

And God help me, he reached for a napkin.

I backed away, stumbling into a waiter. I needed to get out. I needed air.

But as I turned, I saw Eleanor. She wasn't looking at Richard. She wasn't looking at Catherine.

She was looking at me.

And her expression said she knew exactly who had unlocked the attic door.