Helena reached the end of the long hallway. Her fingers closed around the cold brass handle of her bedroom door.
"Stop right there."
The words hit her back like ice water. Her stomach clamped down. She forced herself to take a slow breath before turning around.
Hayward stood at the opposite end of the hall. He was still wearing the same white terrycloth bathrobe, simply using a small towel to carelessly dry the ends of his damp hair. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, his eyes freezing cold as he draped the towel over his neck and crossed his arms over his chest.
"The family trust meeting is on Friday," Hayward said. His voice carried down the empty corridor, sharp and precise.
Helena felt the blood drain from her face. The trust fund. The only thing keeping her from living on the streets.
Hayward pushed off the wall and walked toward her. His footsteps made no sound on the thick carpet.
"My proposal to have you removed is at the top of the agenda," he said.
He stopped two feet away from her. He was too tall. She had to tilt her head back to look at his face.
"Whatever game you were playing in my closet, it won't work," Hayward said. "Theatrics don't move stock prices."
Her throat went dry. The crazy act had bought her five minutes. It was not going to save her trust fund. She had to keep the act going.
"I was not playing a game," Helena said. She kept her voice small. She rubbed her thumb over the edge of the coat pocket. "Eleanor wanted to see your tie collection."
The corner of Hayward's mouth twitched upward in a cold, humorless smile.
"Eleanor?" he repeated. "Tell Eleanor that if she costs the Hancock name one more negative headline, I will personally ensure she ends up in a facility where she can play with all the imaginary friends she wants."
Her lungs stopped working. He was threatening to lock her in a psychiatric ward.
She looked into his eyes. There was no bluff there. He would do it.
She let her lower lip tremble. She forced the moisture to pool in her eyes, letting the very real fear she was feeling show on her face.
"I... I do not know," she whispered. Her voice shook. "My head hurts lately. I cannot remember things."
Hayward stared down at her. He watched the tear form in the corner of her eye. His expression did not soften.
He reached into his pocket. He pulled out a crisp, white card and held it out to her.
"This is your new psychiatrist's card," Hayward said. "Your appointment is tomorrow at ten in the morning. Do not be late."
Helena reached out with a trembling hand. She took the card. The name Dr. Evelyn Reed was printed in black ink.
Hayward turned his back on her. He started walking toward his study.
"Wait," Helena called out.
He stopped. He did not turn around.
"I will be good from now on," she said, pushing every ounce of sincerity she had into the words.
Hayward stood perfectly still for three seconds.
"Prove it," he said.
He walked away.
Helena pushed her bedroom door open and slipped inside. She leaned her back against the solid wood and slid down until she hit the floor. Her legs felt like water.
She looked at the card in her hand. It was a leash.
She pushed herself up and walked into the massive bathroom. She stared at the mirror. The face looking back at her was stunning. High cheekbones, full lips, pale skin. It was the face of a villain.
Down the hall, Hayward walked into his study. He walked to the crystal decanter on his desk and poured two fingers of whiskey.
He took a drink. The burn settled in his chest, but it did not clear his mind.
He thought about the way she looked in the hallway. The old Helena was loud. She threw tantrums. She calculated every move to gain money or attention.
The girl in the hallway looked lost. She looked terrified.
He set the glass down hard on the desk. The pressure of losing her money must have finally cracked her brain. The thought did not bring him satisfaction. It only made a muscle in his jaw tick with deep, unexplainable annoyance.
