Chapter 3

Sloane's POV

The very evening I was released, Vivienne called.

"Come to the house tomorrow morning," her voice was as cold as iron. "We have some things to settle regarding Beckett's arrangements."

The "house" she meant was the pristine white Hale manor overlooking the Avery River. Six years ago, my parents were also "in a car accident" on the highway running alongside this very river. They left me behind, along with the regional logistics company they built from scratch, and the prime riverside land our family owned. The Hales took me in. Vivienne held me tight, vowing that from then on, they were my only family.

It took me years to realize that they never wanted me at all.

The next day, dressed in black, I rang the doorbell I knew all too well.

In the center of the grand living room sat Vivienne in a high-backed chair. Her makeup was flawless, but her eyes were swollen. Standing behind her was her sister, Dr. Rena Cole, dressed in a sharp business suit, looking as clinical as a sterile needle.

The moment I murmured "Mom," Vivienne shot up.

"Don't you dare call me Mom." She spat out every word. "My son was alive yesterday, and today he's lying in the morgue. The police said someone poisoned his pills. Sloane, look me in the eye and tell me it wasn't you."

"Mom, I want to know who did it just as much—he was my husband, how could I—"

"Enough." Rena's voice cut through, terrifyingly calm. "Vivienne, look at her state. She's emotionally erratic, incoherent." She turned to me, assessing me with a clinical gaze, as if reading a chart. "Sloane, have you been skipping your medication again? You had an episode at the banquet just days ago. This state is dangerous. I highly recommend you admit yourself to my clinic for a closed observation period. It’s for your own good, and everyone else's."

My blood ran ice cold.

I understood now. They didn't care what the police found. With just one diagnostic signature from Rena, I—the "emotionally unstable, suicidal" crazy daughter-in-law—could be legally locked away in that clinic. And then, just like my parents, I would suffer an "accident."

"I'm not sick." I heard my own voice shaking. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You see," Rena sighed, turning to Vivienne. "She’s agitated again."

Vivienne glared at me, her eyes devoid of warmth. "Sloane, you won't touch a dime of Hale money, nor a single share of our company. If you know what's good for you, you'll listen to Rena."

I stood in the center of that opulent room, just as isolated and helpless as I was six years ago.

Right then, a figure carrying a tea tray quietly stepped in through the side door.

It was the live-in maid—the same young woman Beckett had been holding at the banquet. Right now, her head was bowed, unassuming, placing the teacups on the table without making a sound.

Vivienne didn't even look at her. "Put it down and get out."

With downcast eyes, the maid turned to leave. But in the fraction of a second as she brushed past me, she flicked her eyes up and met mine.

It lasted merely half a second. No one else in the room noticed.

But I understood perfectly.