“What does that mean?”
“It means the house wakes up.”
“Mr. Blackthorne—”
“Do not argue with me.”
“What are you going to do?”
Marcus looked at the capsule, then toward the chapel doors.
“I am going to let her think love killed me.”
Grace stared at him in horror.
He gave a humorless smile. “Do not worry. Love has tried before.”
Twenty minutes later, Celeste found Marcus in the winter parlor.
The room was dim except for the fire. He sat in a leather chair with the tea tray on the small table beside him. His face looked drawn, his shoulders heavy, his eyes tired in a way Celeste had been waiting to see.
“There you are,” she said gently. “I brought your tea.”
“So I see.”
“You must drink it while it is hot.”
Marcus lifted the cup.
Celeste watched too closely.
He took a small breath. Then his fingers loosened.
The cup crashed onto the rug, dark tea bleeding across pale wool.
Marcus pressed a hand to his chest.
“Celeste,” he gasped.
She stepped back.
He slid from the chair to the floor.
“Call a doctor,” he whispered.
Celeste did not move.
The fire cracked.
Marcus reached for her, his hand trembling. “Please.”
Her face changed then. The mask fell away, not slowly but all at once. The woman who had smiled through charity galas and wedding fittings looked down at him with bright, hungry contempt.
“You should have trusted me less,” she said.
Marcus struggled to breathe.
Celeste knelt beside him, careful not to let her dress touch the spilled tea. She checked his pulse with two fingers, waited, then smiled.
“Goodbye, Marcus.”
She took his phone from his jacket, pressed his thumb to unlock it, and called Victor Sloane.
“It is done,” she said. “Come now. Bring the accountant.”
Grace watched from the security room, one hand over her mouth.
The cameras showed everything. Celeste pacing. Marcus still on the rug. The gates opening eighteen minutes later. Three black cars rolling up the drive like funeral carriages.
Elias, the head of security, stood beside Grace with a headset against one ear.
“Do not look away,” he told her.
“I do not want to see him die.”
Elias glanced at the screen. “Then be grateful he is hard to kill.”
Victor Sloane entered the parlor with six men and a narrow smile.
He was younger than Marcus, dressed in a midnight-blue suit, his blond hair slicked back, his charm polished and rotten. He carried himself like a man who had spent years rehearsing another man’s throne.
Celeste rushed into his arms.
“Where is my money?” she asked.
Victor kissed her forehead. “Still romantic.”
“I did what you asked.”
“You did what greed asked.”
Her smile faltered. “Victor.”
He turned to the accountant behind him. “Open the transfer portal. Use Marcus’s phone. Celeste has the codes.”
Celeste pulled a folded paper from inside her dress. “He kept them in the chapel ledger, just like you said.”
Victor laughed. “The great Marcus Blackthorne. Brought down by a pretty face and a cup of tea.”
On the floor, Marcus opened his eyes.
“Not quite.”
Celeste screamed.
Victor spun around, reaching beneath his jacket.
Every light in the parlor came on at once.
The mirrors along the walls shifted. Hidden panels opened. Armed guards appeared on the balcony, behind the curtains, in the hallways, and at both doors. Red dots settled across Victor’s chest and the chests of every man he had brought with him.
Marcus rose slowly, brushing dust from his sleeve.
He looked very much alive.
And very done pretending.
Victor froze with his hand half inside his coat.
“Move another inch,” Marcus said, “and your tailor will have to explain the holes.”
Celeste backed away, shaking her head. “Marcus, I can explain.”
“No,” Marcus said. “For once, I think you explained yourself perfectly.”
A screen above the fireplace flickered on.
The footage played without mercy.
Celeste in the salon, speaking with Victor. Celeste in the kitchen, pouring the clear liquid. Celeste watching Marcus fall and choosing not to call for help. Victor entering the house, demanding access to the vault and the accounts.
Celeste’s face emptied.
Victor stared at the screen, then at Marcus. “You planned this.”
“I suspected you,” Marcus said. “I planned for you. There is a difference.”
“The bankruptcy?”
“Fiction.”
“The frozen accounts?”
“Decoys.”
“The vault?”
Marcus glanced toward the ceiling camera. “Empty, except for the trap you walked into.”
Victor’s smile twitched. “You think recordings matter? Half this city belongs to me.”
“Not after tonight.”
The accountant’s laptop chimed.
Elias stepped into the room holding a tablet. “Their offshore servers opened the moment they tried the transfer. We have the account routes, shell companies, judges, police contacts, shipment logs, and payment ledgers.”
Marcus looked at Victor. “You brought me your empire in a briefcase.”