Chapter 2 - The Mask Slips
Margaret’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, the practiced serenity faltering before her expression snapped back into one of deep, condescending concern.
"Ethan, darling," Margaret whispered, placing a manicured hand over her chest as if she had been startled by a ghost. "What are you doing home so early? You missed the early morning market run. Sarah is resting—she had another one of her difficult episodes, poor dear. I was just giving her a mild herbal draught to calm her nerves."
Ethan didn't move. He stood tall in the dim hallway light, his gaze boring into his mother with a cold intensity that made Margaret’s breath hitch.
"Herbal draught, Mother?" Ethan’s voice was dangerously quiet. "Since when do you dispense Schedule IV sedatives from a prescription bottle belonging to an anonymous clinic in downtown Chicago?"
Margaret’s chin stiffened. The sweet, fragile facade evaporated completely, replaced by the hard, calculating glare of a woman who had ruled her household through psychological terror for decades. She stepped forward, her voice dropping into a sharp, venomous hiss.
"You don't know what you’re playing with, Ethan," Margaret warned, her eyes darting toward the bedroom where Sarah lay unconscious. "That girl is unstable. She’s dragging our family name through the mud with her postpartum hysterics. If you had any sense, you’d let me handle her quietly before the custody lawyers get involved."
"You aren't handling anything anymore," Ethan said, pulling his phone from his pocket and tapping the screen so the ventilation footage began playing with the audio turned up high.
Margaret’s voice echoed clearly down the hallway: “Soon, everyone will think you’ve lost your mind.”
The color drained instantly from Margaret’s face. She lunged forward with surprising speed, her hand clawing toward the phone like a striking viper. "Delete that! Give me that phone right now, you ungrateful—!"
Ethan sidestepped her with effortless precision, slipping the phone back into his coat pocket. "It’s already backed up to three separate cloud servers, Mother. And Chloe is already on her way here with copies of Aunt Beatrice’s probate files from 1974."
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Margaret staggered back against the wall, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The mention of Beatrice wasn't just a historical footnote; it was the unexploded landmine she had buried beneath fifty years of lies.
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