Chapter 22: The Touch

The darkness of the maze felt heavy, pressing in on me like a physical weight. I held my breath, afraid that even the sound of my lungs filling would betray me. In the gazebo, Richard was still touching Catherine's neck.

I fumbled for my phone, my fingers slick with sweat. The camera app was already open.

I lifted it, shielding the screen’s glow with my palm. The digital zoom was grainy in the low light, but it caught the scene clearly enough.

Richard leaning down. Catherine tilting her head back. The intimacy of it was nauseating. It wasn't just a touch. It was a claim.

I tapped the shutter button. *Click.*

It was silent, but my thumb slipped. The phone jolted in my hand. I gripped it tighter, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I took another. And another.

Then, Richard moved.

He leaned closer, his face inches from hers. I zoomed in, trying to read his lips, but the angle was wrong. But then he did something that made the bile rise in my throat.

He kissed her forehead.

It wasn't the chaste peck of a brother comforting a sister. It was lingering. Tender. He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of her hair, his hand tangling in the dark waves at the nape of her neck.

It was the kiss of a lover saying goodbye. Or hello.

Catherine didn't pull away. She leaned into him, her body softening, molding against his. For a moment, they looked like a single entity, fused together by shared secrets and spilt blood.

I lowered the phone, my hand trembling so hard the image on the screen blurred.

This was it. The proof.

Not just of financial fraud. Not just of bigamy. But of a betrayal so deep, so fundamental, it rewrote the history of my entire life.

Every "late night at the office." Every "business trip" to check on a site. Every time he had come home smelling faintly of something that wasn't me.

It wasn't another woman. It was *her*.

The invalid in the guest house. The ghost in the attic.

I backed away, one step at a time, careful not to crunch the gravel. I needed to get back to the house. I needed to find Marcus. I needed to find a lawyer who wasn't on the Vane payroll.

But as I turned, my heel caught on a root.

I stumbled, throwing my hand out to catch myself. My palm hit the thick hedge with a rustle that sounded like a scream in the quiet night.

In the gazebo, Richard’s head snapped up.

"Who's there?"

I didn't wait. I scrambled to my feet and ran. I didn't care about the noise anymore. I sprinted through the maze, the branches whipping my face, tearing at my gown.

"Elena?"

His voice was behind me. Closer than I expected. He was coming.

I burst out of the maze and onto the lawn. The house loomed ahead, ablaze with light and music. Safety. Witnesses.

I ran toward the terrace doors, my lungs burning. I had to get inside. I had to get to people.

But as I reached the stone steps, a figure stepped out of the shadows, blocking my path.

Eleanor.

She wasn't in her wheelchair. She was standing, leaning heavily on a cane I had never seen before. Her face was a mask of cold fury.

"Where are you going in such a hurry, Elena?" she asked, her voice low and steady.

I skidded to a halt, gasping for air. Behind me, I heard heavy footsteps on the grass. Richard.

I was trapped between the mother who ran the empire and the husband who broke my heart.

"I know," I whispered, holding up my phone. "I have pictures."

Eleanor didn't look at the phone. She looked at Richard, who emerged from the darkness, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with panic.

"She saw us," he said.

Eleanor turned back to me. She didn't look afraid. She looked disappointed.

"A pity," she said. "We were hoping to let you finish the audit first."