Downstairs, the atmosphere in the grand drawing room of the McConnell estate was suffocatingly elegant.
The Astor-Paine family, representing generations of East Coast old money, sat on the antique velvet sofas. Among them sat Anabella Sullivan. She wore a pristine white Dior dress, her blonde hair falling in soft, perfect waves. She sat next to Carl's grandmother, laughing softly and pouring tea with the practiced grace of a woman who fully believed she was the true mistress of the house.
Carl stood near the grand fireplace. He held a crystal glass of sparkling water, his knuckles white from gripping it too tightly. He kept shooting anxious, furious glances toward the grand staircase in the foyer.
He could not believe Justine had actually defied him. He had expected her to clean the blood off her face, put on some heavy concealer, and walk down those stairs to do her duty. When he tried to call her room, the line was dead. She had actually unplugged the phone.
Claire McConnell noticed her son's panic. She elegantly excused herself from the guests and glided over to Carl.
"Control your face, Carl," Claire hissed under her breath, her smile never wavering for the guests. "You look like a panicked amateur. Where is your wife?"
"She locked herself in," Carl muttered, his jaw tight. "She unplugged the phone."
Claire's eyes flashed with cold fury. She turned back to the guests, her smile widening into a mask of perfect, sympathetic grace.
"I must apologize for Justine's absence," Claire announced to the room, her voice dripping with fake sorrow. "Today is the anniversary of her late sister's passing. She is in her room, conducting a private, silent prayer. She is deeply devoted to her family's memory."
The guests murmured in understanding, nodding at the display of familial piety.
Anabella, however, lowered her head to take a sip of her tea. Behind the rim of the porcelain cup, her lips curled into a vicious, knowing smirk. She knew exactly what was happening. Justine was breaking.
Having secured the family's public image, Claire immediately left the drawing room. The moment she stepped into the hallway, the smile vanished, replaced by absolute venom.
She snapped her fingers. Herta, who was waiting by the dining room doors, rushed forward.
"Since my daughter-in-law wishes to pray," Claire said, her voice dropping to a sinister whisper, "we will help her. Lock down her corridor. She is to undergo a seven-day silent fasting retreat. No food. Only water."
Herta's eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure. She nodded.
Claire's true motive was far darker than simple punishment. She knew Justine was sick. A high fever combined with seven days of starvation would severely damage Justine's reproductive system. Claire wanted to ensure that Justine was physically incapable of getting pregnant anytime soon, guaranteeing that Leo remained the sole, undisputed heir to the McConnell fortune.
Herta immediately summoned two massive, broad-shouldered security guards. She grabbed a silver tray from the kitchen. On it, she placed a single glass of tap water and a stale, hard piece of bread.
The three of them marched up the grand staircase.
Outside Justine's bedroom door, a young, freckled maid named Moira Kelly was pacing frantically. Moira was Justine's personal maid, the only person in the entire estate who treated Justine with genuine kindness. Moira was holding a silver basin filled with steaming hot water and a clean washcloth, crying softly as she knocked on the heavy wood.
"Madam, please open the door," Moira whispered, her voice trembling. "Let me clean your face."
Herta marched down the hallway. When she saw Moira, her face twisted in rage.
Herta lunged forward and violently slapped the silver basin out of Moira's hands. The heavy metal crashed onto the floor. The scalding hot water splashed everywhere, soaking Moira's uniform and burning her shins.
Moira cried out in pain and dropped to her knees.
"Get away from that door, you stupid girl," Herta spat, standing over Moira. "The Madam has ordered a seven-day fasting isolation for Mrs. McConnell. No one is allowed to see her."
Moira's eyes widened in horror. "You can't do that!" she cried, looking up at Herta. "She has a terrible fever! Her face is bleeding! Seven days without food will kill her!"
"That is none of your concern," Herta sneered. She turned to the security guards. "Use the master key. Open the door."
Moira scrambled to her feet. Driven by a sudden burst of desperate loyalty, she threw herself in front of the door. She spread her arms wide, blocking the keyhole with her body.
"No!" Moira screamed. "I won't let you!"
Herta's face turned purple with outrage. A lowly maid daring to defy her authority was unacceptable. Herta raised her heavy hand again, her face contorted with malicious rage. "I will have you sent down to the basement laundry room for a month," Herta spat, standing over the trembling girl, "where your skin will peel off from the lye!"
Before her foot could connect, the heavy mahogany door of the bedroom was violently yanked open from the inside.
Justine stood in the doorway.
She looked like a ghost. Her skin was translucent, her lips pale, and the right side of her face was covered by the stark white medical dressing. But the aura radiating from her body was terrifying. The air in the hallway seemed to instantly drop ten degrees.
Justine looked down at Moira bleeding on the floor. Then, she slowly raised her eyes and locked them onto Herta's raised foot.
Justine stepped out of the room. She bent down, her movements slow and deliberate, ignoring the dizzying spin in her head. She gently grabbed Moira's arm and helped the sobbing girl to her feet. Justine raised her thumb and softly wiped the blood from Moira's lip.
Then, Justine turned her body to face Herta.
"Who gave you the courage," Justine asked, her voice so quiet and deadly it made the hairs on the security guards' arms stand up, "to touch my people?"
Herta was momentarily paralyzed by the sheer, murderous intent in Justine's eyes. But she quickly recovered, puffing out her chest, relying on Claire's authority.
"The Madam ordered a seven-day fasting prayer for you to reflect on your sins against Master Leo and your late sister," Herta declared loudly, pointing at the pathetic tray on the floor.
Justine looked at the stale bread. A low, dark chuckle vibrated in her chest. The sound was eerie, echoing in the quiet hallway.
She saw right through Claire's bullshit. It wasn't about prayer. It was about breaking her body. It was about control.
Justine stopped laughing. She took one step toward Herta. The two massive security guards instinctively took a step back.
"You think this garbage is going to break me?" Justine whispered, her eyes burning into Herta's soul. "Since you people love rules so much, let's talk about the law."
Justine turned around and walked back into her bedroom, heading straight for the writing desk.
