That night, Bradley was quiet.
He sat on the edge of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt. He was angry, but he was containing it. He needed Fiona. He needed her money, and now, he needed her silence.
Fiona sat at her vanity, removing her earrings.
"Bradley," Fiona said softly. "I've been thinking."
He grunted. "About what? How to terrorize my son?"
"About my health," Fiona lied. She turned to face him, letting her shoulders droop. "I'm... I'm overwhelmed. With the foundation, the transition of my family's assets is a massive undertaking. Someone needs to manage the public-facing duties, especially with Jimmie. I don't think I can do it alone."
He looked at her, suspicious. "What are you saying?"
"I'm suggesting you need help," Fiona said. "I'm proposing we bring on a 'Special Advisor' to the foundation. Someone to help with the social calendar. Someone Jimmie trusts."
Bradley stopped moving. His hands froze on his shirt.
He was processing the political implications, the way this could be spun to the media. He saw the trap, but he also saw the opportunity.
"Who did you have in mind?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
"Duchess Icy," Fiona said.
His eyes widened. He dropped his shirt.
"Icy?" he repeated. "But... she's your friend."
"Exactly," Fiona said, forcing a smile. "She is so good with Jimmie. And she knows the protocol. If she moved into the East Wing temporarily... it would look like a unified family front, showing how we all support each other during my 'illness'. It would take so much pressure off me."
Fiona stood up and walked over to him. She took his hand. It took every ounce of her willpower not to recoil.
"I just want you to be happy, Bradley. I know I'm not... enough."
A slow smile spread across his face. It was the smile of a man who thought he had just won the lottery.
"Fiona," he said, squeezing her hand. "You are... incredibly generous. Are you sure?"
"Yes," Fiona said. "Call her."
He didn't wait. He kissed her cheek-a dry, perfunctory peck-and practically ran to the balcony to make the call.
Fiona turned away. She walked to the bathroom and locked the door.
She grabbed a wet wipe and scrubbed her hand. She scrubbed until the skin was red and raw.
Come in, Icy, she thought, staring at her reflection. Come into the light where I can see you.
Her earpiece buzzed.
"Inviting the wolf into the sheep pen," Demian's voice drawled. "Bold strategy."
"She's not a wolf," Fiona whispered. "She's a parasite. She needs a host to survive. I'm just changing the environment."
"And what happens when she tries to take your place?"
"I'll let her," Fiona said. "The throne is electric, Demian. If you sit on it wrong, it fries you."
The next day, Icy arrived.
She came with a caravan of Louis Vuitton luggage and an entourage of assistants. She wore a white sundress and a wide-brimmed hat, looking every inch the innocent angel.
Fiona met her on the front steps. The press was there, of course. Bradley had tipped them off.
"Fiona!" Icy squealed, rushing up the stairs.
She hugged Fiona. Her perfume was cloying-gardenias and ambition.
"Thank you so much for inviting me," she whispered in Fiona's ear. "I promise, I'll take good care of Bradley."
The threat was clear.
Fiona pulled back and smiled for the cameras.
"Welcome home, sister," she said.
Fiona led her to the guest suite she had prepared. It was luxurious, filled with flowers.
And in the base of the large potted fern in the corner, hidden under the moss, was a high-fidelity listening device.
"I hope you're comfortable," Fiona said.
"Oh, it's perfect," Icy said, spinning around. She flopped onto the bed. "So close to Bradley's study."
"Yes," Fiona said. "Very convenient."
Fiona left her to unpack.
As she walked down the hall, she heard Icy lock the door.
Fiona tapped her earpiece. "Is the feed live?"
"Crystal clear," Vane's voice replied.
Fiona smiled.
Welcome to hell, Icy.
