Chapter 5

"It's just a superficial laceration," the doctor said smoothly, handing Elara a small white bandage. "No concussion. He'll have a slight headache, but he is perfectly fine."

Perfectly fine. A tiny scratch. Yet, the way Matthew and Elara were hovering over Ethan, stroking his hair and whispering sweet comforts, you would think he had survived a fatal car crash.

Once the doctor was escorted out, Matthew turned his predatory gaze back to me.

"If you ever try to leave this house again, Beatrice," he warned. "I will have you arrested for child abuse. I will tell the police you tried to murder my son in a fit of jealous hysteria. With your mother gone, you have absolutely no one to corroborate your lies. You will rot in a prison cell."

I stared at him, my hands resting limply in my lap. I didn't tremble. I didn't cry.

"Tomorrow is Ethan’s eighth birthday," she announced. "We are hosting a lavish party for him here. Since you clearly lack any maternal instincts, you can at least make yourself useful as the help. You will bake his favorite birthday cake. From scratch. A three-tiered chocolate sponge with Swiss buttercream. And it better be perfect, or I’ll make sure Matthew calls the police tonight."

"And make sure you don't ruin it like you ruin everything else!" Ethan suddenly chimed in from the sofa, his fake tears instantly vanishing. He pointed a small, accusatory finger at me, emboldened by the protective wall of his biological parents. "You're just a crazy, ugly maid! I hate you! I wish you died with that old woman!"

Matthew crossed his arms, waiting for me to break. He expected me to scream, to beg, to throw another hysterical fit.

Instead, I slowly pushed myself off the floor. I smoothed down the torn fabric of my blouse, my face a blank, emotionless mask.

I looked directly into Matthew’s eyes, and for the first time in seven years, I felt absolutely nothing for him.

"Of course," I whispered, my voice carrying a chilling, dead-eyed calmness. "I will bake his cake."

A flicker of genuine unease crossed Matthew’s handsome face.

My eerie submission unnerved him, but his massive ego quickly brushed it aside.

He sneered, turning his back on me to coddle his precious family.

That night, I started working in the kitchen. I sifted the fine flour, melted the rich, dark chocolate, and folded the batter.

The sweet, intoxicating aroma of baking cocoa filled the air, a sickeningly warm scent that sharply contrasted with the absolute ice freezing my veins.

While the three perfect tiers of cake baked in the oven, I walked over to my purse, which was still sitting on the counter from my failed airport escape.

I reached inside and pulled out a thick, folder. Inside were the divorce papers I had drawn up weeks ago, back when I had foolishly hoped to leave this marriage with a shred of my dignity intact.

I laid the documents flat on the cold marble island. I didn't bother reading through the clauses or the asset divisions. I didn't want a single penny of Matthew Thorne's blood money. I just wanted my freedom.

I picked up a sleek black pen. I signed my name—Beatrice Vance—with a bold, steady stroke, officially severing the chains that bound me to this nightmare.

I folded the papers neatly and slid them into a white envelope, sealing it tight.

I placed it in the center of the kitchen island, right where Matthew would find it tomorrow.

The oven timer chimed.

I pulled the cakes out, letting them cool on the wire racks before I began to stack them.

Then, it was time for the frosting.

My fingers closed around a small, cold object.

I pulled it out into the harsh kitchen light. It was a tiny, unmarked glass vial, filled with a perfectly clear liquid.

I had stolen it from Matthew's locked emergency medical bag the night before, while he was busy welcoming Elara back into his bed.

It was a highly concentrated, untraceable medical toxin. A rare paralytic that mimicked the exact symptoms of a sudden, massive respiratory failure.

The exact same way my mother had died.

The mixer hummed steadily. I stared at the beautiful, innocent-looking frosting.

My mother’s terrified, frozen eyes flashed in my mind, followed by the cruel, mocking laughter of the boy who had locked her away.

A cold, emotionless smile stretched across my face, cracking the numb mask I had worn all day.

With a flick of my thumb, I uncorked the glass vial.

I tipped the vial over the spinning bowl, pouring every single drop of the deadly poison directly into the sweet buttercream.

The whisk folded it in perfectly, leaving absolutely no trace behind.

I turned off the mixer. The silence returned, heavy and absolute.

"Happy birthday, Ethan," I whispered to the empty kitchen. “And goodbye.”