Chapter 2: The Guest Room Exile
They moved me upstairs before the paramedics arrived—not that Arthur called them. Instead, he called his private concierge doctor, a quiet, discreet man who arrived twenty minutes later with a black leather bag and a closed expression. Dr. Vance—no relation to Victoria, though the coincidence felt suffocating—checked my vitals, muttered something about exhaustion and low blood pressure, and left a script for bed rest.
By midnight, I wasn't in my own bedroom. Arthur had moved me down the hall to the sterile, cream-colored guest room, citing my 'recovery needs' and the danger of the shattered kitchen glass. The door didn't have a lock on the inside.
The house was dead silent except for the low hum of the central air conditioning. I lay on the edge of the mattress, staring at the moonlight cutting across the patterned carpet. My body still ached, every joint feeling hollow and bruised, but the fog in my brain had thinned into sharp, analytical clarity. Arthur hadn't asked the paramedics to come. He had trusted Victoria's narrative before my eyes were even fully open.
A soft click at the door handle made my breath catch.
The door swung inward an inch, casting a sliver of hallway light across the floor. Victoria slipped inside, barefoot, still wearing a silk robe over the remnants of her afternoon attire. She didn't turn on the light. She walked over to the foot of the bed, her shadow falling heavy across my shins.
“You’re playing a very dangerous game, Clara,” Victoria whispered, her voice barely louder than the AC vent. “Arthur is stressed. The board meeting for the foundation is next week. He doesn't need a wife who collapses on the kitchen floor like a fragile antique.”
“Where is my daughter?” I asked, my voice steady, stripped of the morning's weakness.
May you like
Victoria tilted her head, a cold smile touching the corners of her painted lips. “Chloe is sleeping in her own room, right down the hall from Arthur and me. She feels very safe with us. You should focus on resting. Dr. Vance said you might need a few more weeks of complete seclusion.”
She turned on her heel and slipped out as silently as she had entered, leaving behind the faint, cloying scent of designer perfume. I threw off the heavy duvet, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. Near the baseboard, wedged beneath the heavy oak dresser, something small and hard dug into my heel. I knelt, reaching into the dust, and pulled out an orange prescription pill bottle with the label carefully scraped clean with a razor blade.
