Chapter 3

The next afternoon, Dr. Evans arrived at the villa right on time.

He was a man in his fifties with graying hair, wearing rimless glasses that gave him a professional, kindly appearance.

But when his eyes met Gideon's, the covert glance they exchanged laid bare their complicity.

"Charlotte, please have a seat." Dr. Evans gestured toward the sofa across from him, opening his voice recorder and notebook.

Gideon, Natalie, and Dylan sat nearby, ostensibly concerned, but really there to monitor me.

"Let's start by discussing your recent sleep patterns." Dr. Evans's voice was gentle, but his questions were loaded with suggestion. "Have you been feeling like someone's watching you? Or noticing strange tastes in your food?"

He was alluding to yesterday's juice incident.

I kept my head down, saying nothing.

"Charlotte, please look at me. Your diary mentions that you believe everyone around you is trying to harm you. Is that true?" Dr. Evans suddenly dropped a bombshell.

My head snapped up. "What diary? I've never kept a diary!"

Dylan immediately stood, pulling a pink notebook from his pocket and handing it to the doctor.

"Charlotte, stop lying. I found this under your pillow this morning. You've been writing this... this disturbing stuff every night."

I stared at the notebook with laser focus.

It was the one I'd used for calculus notes this semester. Now they'd forged my handwriting to manufacture evidence of mental instability.

Dr. Evans opened it and read aloud:

"'They're all watching me. Natalie's smile hides knives. Dylan's hugs feel like nooses. I have to kill them before they make their move...' Charlotte, this level of paranoid delusion is extremely dangerous."

"I didn't write that!" I shot to my feet, my voice shaking with rage.

"But it's clearly your handwriting." Natalie spoke up timidly from the side. "Charlotte, if you're sick, you need treatment. Don't be in denial."

Watching the four of them work in seamless coordination, I suddenly realized that ordinary explanations were meaningless against this alliance of villains.

If they wanted to paint me as insane, I'd give them a performance of absolute madness.

I took a deep breath, then without warning grabbed a priceless antique vase from the coffee table and hurled it at Dr. Evans's feet.

"Crash!"

Porcelain shattered everywhere. Dr. Evans screamed and scrambled behind the sofa.

"You're trying to drive me crazy! You're all demons!" I shrieked, clawing frantically at my hair.

"Charlotte! Have you lost your mind?!" Gideon roared, jumping to his feet.

Two bodyguards rushed forward, slamming me down against the leather sofa.

Using the violent struggle as cover, I quickly pressed a micro listening device into the blind spot beneath the sofa base. My eyes remained wild and unfocused as they swept over everyone present.

I grabbed a ceramic shard from the floor and without hesitation dragged it across my left forearm, opening a shallow wound. Blood welled up immediately.

"Get away from me!"

Like a cornered animal, tears and snot streaming down my face, I screamed, "It's you! You poisoned my juice! You stole my thesis! You want my inheritance— you want me dead!"

I slapped myself hard twice, smashed the pill bottle, and wailed that someone was trying to kill me.

The entire living room descended into chaos. Natalie shrieked and buried herself in Dylan's arms. Dylan backed away, his face drained of color.

"Sedative! Get the drugs into her now!" Gideon bellowed at the trembling doctor.

The two bodyguards forced my jaw open. Dr. Evans, shaking, shoved two powerful sedative tablets into my mouth and roughly poured half a glass of water down my throat.

Amid the violent coughing and struggling, I managed to wedge the pills into the gap behind my back molars, my throat making false swallowing motions.

Behind the curtain of my disheveled hair, my eyes held no trace of madness—only absolute clarity and cold calculation.

I watched Dr. Evans scribble rapidly on his diagnosis form: [Severe paranoid schizophrenia with violent and self-harming tendencies. Recommend involuntary commitment and revocation of civil capacity.]

About ten minutes later, I pretended the medication had taken effect and collapsed limply on the floor, feigning unconsciousness.

That evening, I was locked in my second-floor bedroom. The wound on my arm had been bandaged, and the door was bolted from outside.

In the darkness, I immediately opened my eyes and spit the half-dissolved, slightly bitter pills into a tissue, then thoroughly rinsed my mouth with cold water.

I pulled the Bluetooth earpiece from my pillowcase and put it in. The listening device transmitted voices from the living room downstairs.

"What did the doctor say?" Gideon's voice carried exhaustion and cold ruthlessness.

"The diagnosis is ready. With this, you can petition the court to become her sole legal guardian and take full control of the trust fund."

Dr. Evans said obsequiously, "But Mr. Gideon, she made such a scene today. If she goes to the school or police station and starts talking..."

"She won't get the chance." Gideon's cold laugh cut through the air.

"Gideon, what about my thesis..." Natalie asked anxiously.

"Submit your thesis tomorrow as planned. As for her—"

Gideon paused, his voice taking on a bone-chilling edge of murderous intent, "Tomorrow night is the graduation gala. With this psychiatric record as cover, in a crowded venue, a mentally unstable patient 'carelessly' consuming a dessert laced with high-concentration peanut extract, leading to fatal anaphylactic shock... the police will write it off as a tragic accident caused by impaired judgment."

"The trust fund will transfer directly to my account, free of police scrutiny."

"The dosage has to be high enough." Dylan added. "Judging by today's reaction, a normal amount might not work fast enough. I've obtained 99% pure extract in a syringe. If she won't eat it, we inject her directly."

"Perfect. We'll do it in the storage room backstage at the gala. No cameras there." Gideon's voice was final.

In the darkness, listening to the countdown to my murder through the earpiece, cold fury burned in my chest.

I quickly raised my hand to stop the recording.

But as I leaned forward, my oversized pajama sleeve caught the edge of the nightstand—where a glass of water sat, left carelessly by the bodyguard who'd supervised my medication earlier.

"Crash!"

The glass smashed heavily on the floor, the sharp shattering sound like a gunshot in the silent villa.

My breathing stopped.

In my earpiece, the conspiratorial voices from the study below cut off abruptly.

Then, through the listening device, came Gideon's sharp voice: "What was that noise upstairs?"