Chapter 4 - The Poisoned Well
The heavy rainfall that began at midnight showed no sign of stopping as dawn broke over the Prescott estate. Sheets of gray water lashed against the high arched windows of the grand dining room, casting flickering, watery shadows across the mahogany table.
Sabina sat at the head of the table, wrapped in a silk kimono, sipping an espresso with an air of absolute authority. Opposite her, two small silver plates sat untouched. Gemma and Lorelai sat side-by-side, their small bodies rigid, their eyes fixed firmly on their cloth napkins.
"Eat your poached eggs," Sabina said, without looking up from her tablet, where she was scanning real-time stock indexes. "I won't have you looking like starved orphans when the new tutors arrive this afternoon."
"I'm not hungry, Miss Sabina," Lorelai murmured softly, her voice barely audible above the sound of the rain.
Sabina set her porcelain cup down with a sharp clink that made both girls flinch. She slowly turned her gaze toward Lorelai.
"I didn't ask if you were hungry, Lorelai," Sabina said, her tone smooth, icy, and entirely devoid of warmth. "I ordered you to eat. Your father is currently in a high-level meeting in Vancouver, working to pay for your luxury lifestyle. The least you can do is demonstrate basic obedience in his absence."
In the concealed service corridor behind the dining room wall, Chadworth stood next to Arthur, listening through a high-sensitivity audio feed plugged directly into his earpiece. His teeth were gritted so tightly his jaw ached. It took every ounce of his formidable willpower not to kick open the hidden access door and tear Sabina away from his children with his bare hands.
Arthur held up a hand, silently urging patience. "Wait for the financial transfer to initiate, sir," Arthur whispered. "Our cyber-security team in London has set the honeypot trap. The second she uses your master credentials to initiate the transfer to Vance’s account, the criminal paper trail becomes legally indisputable."
On the other side of the wall, Rosamund stepped into the dining room carrying a fresh pot of herbal tea. She moved with practiced, quiet efficiency, setting the pot near Sabina’s elbow.
"Miss Sabina," Rosamund said softly. "The head gardener requires your authorization for the spring conservatory order. He says the forms need to be signed before noon."
Sabina waved her hand dismissively, not looking away from her tablet screen. "Tell him to wait. I am busy with private estate matters."
"He mentioned that Mr. Prescott usually approves those orders prior to his departure," Rosamund added, subtly dropping Chadworth’s name into the air like a lure.
Sabina’s eyes flashed with annoyance. She snapped her tablet shut. "Chadworth is not here. I am the sole authority in this house until he returns. Do you have a problem with that, Rosamund?"
"No, Miss Sabina," Rosamund said humbly, lowering her head. "I simply thought you would want the paperwork finalized so Mr. Prescott isn't bothered with minor expenses upon his return from Canada."
"Your opinion on what my husband-to-be needs is entirely irrelevant," Sabina snapped. She picked up her phone, her thumb rapidly tapping the screen. "In fact, since you are so concerned with administrative duties, you can take these two out of my sight. Take them to the west library. They are not to leave that room until I give permission. And if I find a single fingerprint on the glass cabinets, I will hold you personally responsible."
"Yes, Miss Sabina," Rosamund said. She offered a subtle, reassuring glance to Gemma and Lorelai. "Come, young mistresses."
The girls didn't hesitate. They slid down from their chairs like phantom shadows and quickly followed Rosamund out of the grand dining room, their small footsteps making no sound on the thick Persian rug.
As soon as the heavy double doors clicked shut behind them, Sabina let out a harsh, irritated breath. She stood up, locked the dining room doors from the inside, and pulled out her secondary, encrypted smartphone.
"Julian," she said as soon as the line connected. "The house is quiet. The servants are confined to their quarters or distracted with chores, and the children are locked in the library."
"Have you accessed the master server terminal in Prescott's study?" Vance’s voice came back clear through the hidden room’s receiver.
"I'm heading there now," Sabina said, walking briskly toward the grand staircase. "I have his duplicated keycard. Once I swipe into the terminal, you’ll have a ninety-second window to mirror his private encryption keys before the system flags an off-site access anomaly."
"Make sure there are no mistakes, Sabina," Vance warned cold. "If Prescott’s corporate risk team catches wind of an unauthorized API draw, they will freeze the holding accounts before the funds clear the intermediary bank in Panama."
"There won't be mistakes," Sabina scoffed, her heels clicking loudly against the marble as she ascended the stairs to Chadworth’s private suite. "The man trusts me implicitly. He left his entire world wide open to me."
Inside the hidden monitoring room, Chadworth watched the screen corresponding to the second-floor hallway. Sabina moved with fluid, ruthless confidence, approaching the heavy, double-reinforced oak doors of his private study—a sanctuary where even his daughters were rarely allowed without permission.
She pulled out a sleek, black security card—a near-perfect clone of the master key Chadworth carried in his inner suit pocket. She swiped it through the hidden scanner concealed behind a framed oil painting.
Beep. Beep.
The heavy electronic locks disengaged with a dull thud. Sabina smiled, a triumphant, wicked expression that twisted her beautiful features into something grotesque. She pushed the door open and stepped into the room.
What she expected to find was an empty, sunlit sanctuary of leather books, art, and a sleeping computer terminal.
What she found instead sent a cold shock of absolute terror straight through her spine.
Sitting quietly behind the massive executive desk, flanked by two towering officers from the state financial crimes division, was Chadworth Prescott.
He was not in Canada. He was not on a plane.
He was dressed in his sharpest charcoal suit, his hands clasped neatly on the polished mahogany surface before him. His face was entirely devoid of emotion—a mask of cold, unyielding stone.
May you like
Sabina froze in the doorway, her foot hovering an inch above the carpet. The black keycard slipped from her manicured fingers, falling onto the rug with a soft, lifeless thud.
"Welcome to my study, Sabina," Chadworth said, his voice dropping into the silent room like a heavy iron weight. "You’re just in time for our meeting."
