Mia pointed a trembling finger at the smoking rug. "What happened here?"
"Julian dropped my birthday tea," I said.
"That's not tea!" Mia's voice shot up an octave. "It's melting the wool!"
"Is it?" I stood up, smoothing the front of my skirt. "You better tell him to ask for a refund from the importer."
"Lily, wait." She grabbed my forearm. Her nails dug into my skin. "Did you ingest any of it?"
I yanked my arm free. "Why do you care?"
"I'm your sister. I worry."
"You look terrified." I tilted my head, studying her pale face. "Or maybe just disappointed."
"Don't be crazy." Mia swallowed hard, her eyes darting back to the ruined floor. "Where is Julian?"
"Getting ice. He burned his hand on his own special brew."
"I need to find him."
"You do that."
I bypassed the living room entirely, leaving Mia staring at the corrosive puddle. I didn't run. Panic belonged to my past life. I walked up the sweeping mahogany staircase, each step silent on the plush carpet.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed.
"Thorne," I said when the line connected.
"Miss Mercer," the gruff voice answered. "Happy birthday."
"Skip the party hats. Are the papers ready?"
"Sitting on my desk. Did your fiancé make his move?"
"He tried to serve me poisoned tea."
A heavy pause hung on the other end of the line. "Are you unharmed?"
"Perfectly."
"I told you to leave the house last night."
"If I left, he would know I was onto him. We need him confident."
"Confidence makes men dangerous, Lily."
"It makes them blind," I countered. "Did my mother sign his version yesterday?"
"She did. He cornered her after her medication. She thought she was signing a routine tax extension. The daytime nurse confirmed it."
"He's getting sloppy." I reached the second-floor landing. "I'm going into her study now."
"If he catches you with that transfer agreement, he won't bother with poison next time."
"He won't catch me."
I pushed open the heavy oak door to my mother's study. The room smelled of old paper and lemon polish. I crossed the floor and stopped behind the massive red wood desk.
"I'm at the desk," I told Thorne, wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder.
"Third drawer down on the right," Thorne instructed. "He thinks I don't know his hiding spots."
I gripped the brass handle and pulled. The drawer slid open with a soft metallic scrape.
Inside sat a single kraft paper envelope. The metal clasp was unsealed.
"I see it," I said.
"Open it. Verify the signature."
I slid the thick stack of papers out. The legal jargon blurred together, page after page of asset transfers, bank authorizations, and property deeds. I flipped directly to the final page.
There, scrawled in shaky blue ink, was my mother's handwriting. Elena Mercer.
"It's here," I said. "Her signature is on the last page."
"Take it."
"I am."
I folded the original document in half. I lifted the hem of my blouse and tucked the thick paper firmly into the back waistband of my skirt. The stiff parchment pressed cold against my spine.
"What about the decoy?" Thorne asked.
"Right here."
I pulled a folded stack of papers from my own pocket. Blank clauses, standard legal jargon, no signatures. I shoved the fake document into the kraft paper envelope.
"Put it back exactly how you found it," Thorne warned. "He pays attention to details."
"I know."
I dropped the envelope back into the drawer. A heavy leather-bound dictionary sat nearby. I grabbed the book and dropped it over the corner of the envelope, weighing it down.
"Done," I said.
"Get out of there, Lily."
"Hanging up now."
I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the desk.
A sharp sting flared across my right hand.
I looked down.
The edge of the decoy paper had sliced the side of my index finger. A thin, perfectly straight cut.
A single bead of blood welled up from the split skin.
I stared at the bright crimson drop. It grew larger, swelling until it threatened to spill over my knuckle. Pain pulsed in a steady rhythm, sharp and grounding.
I didn't wipe it away. I didn't reach for a tissue.
Instead, I pressed my bleeding finger flat against the polished mahogany surface of my mother's desk.
I held it there.
One second. Two seconds. Three.
I lifted my hand.
A dark red fingerprint remained on the wood. A mark. A promise. He wanted to steal my family's legacy. He was going to bleed for it.
I grabbed my phone and turned toward the door.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Heavy, fast, thudding against the floorboards.
Julian.
I froze.
"I don't care about the rug, Mia!" Julian's voice hissed through the crack in the door.
"She knows!" Mia whispered back, her voice frantic. "She looked right at me and smiled!"
"Keep your voice down."
"Your hand is wrapped in a towel, Julian. She threw boiling poison at you!"
"She slapped the cup. It was a reflex."
"She didn't drink it!"
"I know she didn't drink it!" Julian snarled.
"What are we going to do?" Mia asked. "The lawyers are expecting her at noon."
"We proceed as planned."
"Without her dead?"
"If she shows up to the reading, I'll present the transfer agreement her mother signed yesterday. The estate defaults to me regardless of her birthday."
"Are you sure the document is secure?"
"It's upstairs."
"Go get it. Now."
"I am."
The footsteps grew louder. He was at the top of the stairs.
I scanned the study. There was no second exit. Only the heavy oak door, and the balcony. The balcony doors were locked from the outside.
"Julian, wait," Mia called out from below.
"What now?"
"Did you lock the study?"
"I didn't need to."
"What if she's in there?"
"She went to her bedroom. I saw her walk down the hall."
He was lying. Or he was guessing.
I backed away from the desk, my spine hitting the tall bookshelves. The transfer agreement crinkled against my lower back.
"Just check," Mia insisted.
"Fine."
His footsteps approached the study door.
I held my position. My chest rose and fell in a slow, silent rhythm. I watched the brass doorknob.
"Confirmed no one is in the study," Julian's hushed voice came through the wood, speaking into his phone now. "I'm going to get the document now..."
