Chapter 11: The Ascent
The air inside the dumbwaiter shaft was thick with the smell of old grease and stale spices. Emma’s muscles screamed in protest with every pull of the heavy, braided ropes. The wooden box groaned beneath her weight, shifting dangerously, threatening to snap the ancient cables and send her plummeting three stories down into the estate's stone basement.
Don't look down, she told herself, gritting her teeth. Just pull.
Her palms were blistered and bleeding, the slick grease making it nearly impossible to keep her grip. But every time she felt her strength failing, the image of Ethan’s terrified, tear-stained face in that dark concrete cell flashed across her mind. She pulled harder.
The box inched upward, passing the darkened second-floor hallway. Through the cracks in the wooden doors, Emma could hear the faint, muffled footsteps of Isabella’s mercenaries patrolling the grand staircase. They were thoroughly searching the lower levels, confident that if Emma had returned, she would come through the front door. They underestimated the housekeeper. They always did.
Finally, the dumbwaiter jolted to a halt on the third floor.
Emma held her breath, pressing her ear against the small wooden door that opened directly into William’s private study, adjoined to the master suite. It was deathly quiet.
She carefully undid the latch and pushed the door open an inch.
The study was dimly lit by a single amber desk lamp. Beyond it, the door to the master bedroom was wide open. Emma squeezed out of the cramped box, her knees buckling slightly as her feet hit the plush carpet. She clutched the heavy iron crowbar in her right hand, creeping forward like a ghost.
As she neared the bedroom door, she heard a voice.
"It really is a tragedy, William," Isabella was saying, her tone laced with a sickening, faux-sympathy.
Emma peered around the doorframe.
William Sterling was slumped in a heavy armchair by the fireplace. His eyes were half-open, glassy and unseeing. He was breathing, but his chest moved with a terrifying shallowness. The "vitamins" had done their work; he was entirely paralyzed, trapped within his own failing body.
Isabella stood at the vanity, no longer wearing her ivory satin gown. She was dressed in a sleek, black traveling suit. Beside her designer leather duffel bag sat a small, stainless-steel medical tray. On it rested a glass vial of clear liquid and a syringe.
"You fought so hard to build this empire," Isabella murmured, drawing the clear liquid into the syringe with practiced precision. "But the grief of losing your only son? It was simply too much for your heart to bear. The coroner will find traces of an aggressive, stress-induced cardiac event. A fatal heart attack. So sad. So very... convenient."
She flicked the syringe, tapping the side to release a small air bubble.
William let out a low, guttural groan, a single tear slipping down his cheek. He understood what was happening, but he couldn't lift a finger to stop it.
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"Shh, darling," Isabella cooed, walking toward him, the needle glinting in the firelight. "It will be over in just a moment."
Emma tightened her grip on the crowbar. There was no time left. She stepped out of the shadows.
