The morning mist was thick on the driveway. Arla regulated her breathing. In, out. In, out. She was on a mandatory "tour of the grounds" with a grim-faced security guard, a flimsy pretext to keep her under watch.
The low hum of an engine cut through the air. A black Maybach rolled through the fog, moving slowly over the gravel.
Arla timed it perfectly. She stopped near the front portico, bending down to retie a shoe that wasn't loose.
The car stopped. It had to wait for the second security gate to open.
The rear, tinted window was a black mirror. She couldn't see inside, but she knew who was there. She could feel his presence like a drop in barometric pressure.
The front door of the manor flew open. "They're here!" Claudine came running down the steps, her chiffon dress billowing.
Silas exited the driver's side and opened the rear passenger door. A ramp smoothly extended to the gravel.
Slowly, Silas wheeled him out. Ellery Winters.
He was slumped in a state-of-the-art wheelchair. A cashmere blanket was draped over his legs. His head was tilted slightly to the side, his eyes open but unfocused, a thin line of spittle at the corner of his mouth. He was the perfect image of a man whose body and mind were a prison.
Arla stood up. She wiped her hands on her leggings.
Claudine threw herself at the wheelchair, stopping just short of touching him. "Ellery! Darling! You came!" She glared at Arla. "What are you doing here? Stop bothering my future brother-in-law."
Ellery's vacant gaze drifted over Claudine, over the house, and then they landed on Arla.
His pupils contracted. It was a flicker. A microscopic, momentary sharpening of focus that no one else could have seen.
For a moment, the mask slipped. Pure, unadulterated shock flashed in the depths of his eyes before being swallowed by the engineered emptiness.
Arla held his gaze for a second too long. She smiled, a crooked, dangerous thing that didn't reach her eyes.
"Just getting some fresh air," she said, her voice dripping with a faux, syrupy sweetness. "Welcome to the family."
Ellery's jaw muscle, just under his ear, gave a single, hard clench.
He stared at her. The gears were turning behind the vacant facade. Arla Woods. Arla Fitzgerald.
The lie. The two years of it.
He made a soft, gurgling sound. It was a performance of confusion, but Arla heard the rage simmering beneath it.
"He's excited to see the house," Silas said smoothly, stepping in to steer the wheelchair toward the ramp.
Claudine cooed and took one of the handles. "Oh, you poor dear. Let's get you inside."
Arla took a step back. She smoothed her hoodie.
She watched them wheel the invalid billionaire into the decaying mansion. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
The game had just begun.
