Chapter 3 - ECHOES OF THE PAST
The tension in the sprawling mansion was suffocating as the hours ticked by. The guests had been herded into the grand parlor, guarded by Arthur's private security force, their phones confiscated. In the private medical wing of the estate, Mia was being attended to by Arthur’s personal physician. She had been bathed, her cuts cleaned and bandaged, and she was now wearing a plush, oversized robe, eating a bowl of warm broth with the ravenous hunger of a starving animal.
Arthur sat in a leather armchair in the corner of the room, watching her. His mind was a tempest of rage and agonizing grief. Five years ago, Eleanor had been found dead in her private apartment. The coroner had ruled it a tragic suicide by overdose. She had been struggling with depression, they said. She had left a note, they said. Arthur had buried his daughter along with the best parts of himself, retreating into a ruthless, emotionless shell.
But the silver capsule changed everything. The initials E.V. were custom engraved. It was a pill case he had gifted Eleanor for her twenty-first birthday, a beautiful little antique. It had gone missing after her death. And now, this child—this broken, bruised girl from the streets—had brought it back to him, wrapped in a nightmare.
"Mr. Vance," Dr. Aris spoke softly, stepping away from Mia's bed. "She is severely malnourished, but she will be fine. She’s remarkably resilient."
"Thank you, Doctor. Leave us," Arthur commanded softly. Once the door clicked shut, Arthur leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Mia," he said gently. "Where did you get the capsule? After the chef and Cassandra spoke, what happened?"
Mia wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve. "The lady dropped it. After she poured the powder into a little cup, she was shaking. She dropped the silver case and it rolled under the flour sacks. I grabbed it. When they left, I ran. I knew you were the one eating the dessert because the chef said 'The King’s plate is ready.'"
Arthur closed his eyes, a profound, chilling anger settling deep into his bones. Cassandra. He had taken her in, elevated her from a mid-level corporate executive to his partner, trusted her with his legacy. She had played the sympathetic, loving companion perfectly.
"Mia, how old are you?" Arthur asked suddenly, a terrible, desperate math working out in his head.
"I don't know exactly," Mia said softly, looking down at her hands. "The orphanage lady said I was maybe six. Or seven."
Seven. Eleanor had isolated herself from the family for nearly two years before her death, living in Europe, claiming she needed space to paint and find herself. Could it be? Could she have been hiding a pregnancy? The timeline fit. The eyes fit.
A sharp knock on the door pulled Arthur from his thoughts. Marcus stepped in, his expression grim. "Sir. The lab rushed the tox screen. The dessert was laced with a lethal, untraceable synthetic cardiac arrester. The same compound used in the Russian sector for political assassinations. It would have killed you in three minutes, presenting exactly like a massive myocardial infarction."
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Arthur’s face turned to stone. "And the chef?"
"We found him trying to breach the service gate. He’s secured in the lower holding room. He’s already talking, sir. He sold Cassandra out the moment we broke his nose."
