Chapter 8: The Poisoned King
For an hour, Emma drove erratically, taking backroads and dirt paths, terrified of seeing headlights in her rearview mirror. The catering van clanked and shuddered, the front bumper dragging against the asphalt, but it held together until they crossed the bridge into the gritty, neon-lit streets of Queens.
She pulled into the alley behind her rundown apartment building, killed the engine, and let her head fall against the steering wheel. She was shivering uncontrollably.
"Emma?"
She turned. Ethan was sitting up, the fresh air and adrenaline seemingly burning through whatever sedatives Isabella had pumped into him. He looked around the dingy alley, his eyes wide.
"We're safe, Ethan. We're at my place," Emma said gently, ushering him out of the van and up the rusted fire escape to her second-floor window.
Inside, her apartment was a single room, cramped but immaculately clean. She locked the deadbolt, pulled the heavy blackout curtains, and guided Ethan to her small sofa, wrapping him in a thick quilt. She brought him a glass of water and a piece of toast.
He drank greedily, his hands shaking.
"Ethan, you have to tell me what happened," Emma said, sitting on the coffee table facing him. "Isabella told everyone you went to Maine. How did you end up in the vault?"
Ethan’s eyes welled with tears. "I didn't go to Maine. She locked me in there the night of the wedding. She told me... she told me my dad wanted me in there."
"William would never do that," Emma said firmly.
"I know," Ethan sobbed. "Because I saw what she did to him. The night before the wedding, I couldn't sleep. I went to the kitchen for milk. I saw her grinding up pills. Lots of them. She put them in my dad’s special whiskey decanter. She told the guards they were just his vitamins."
Emma’s blood ran cold. Vitamins. William hadn't been himself for months. The vibrant, sharp-witted billionaire had become sluggish, agreeable, and entirely dependent on Isabella. She wasn't just isolating him; she was poisoning him. Slowly stripping away his cognitive function so he would sign over the estate and his trusts without a fight.
"And the flight to Zurich," Emma muttered aloud, pacing the small room. "She's not waiting for him to die of natural causes. The trust was signed tonight. She’s going to finish it."
Ethan looked up, terrified. "Is she going to kill my dad?"
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Emma stopped pacing. She looked at the scared nine-year-old boy, then at the bright yellow cleaning gloves still shoved in her apron pocket. She had spent her life cleaning up other people's messes, staying invisible, keeping her head down. But invisibility was a weapon, too.
"Not if we stop her," Emma said, her voice hardening into steel.
