Chapter 10 - Handcuffs in the Cathedral
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Victoria did not fall gracefully. She did not faint dramatically like a heroine in a tragic play. Her knees simply gave out beneath the weight of her sins, and she struck the marble ground with a sickening thud that made several people in the front pews cry out in shock. Celine screamed, dropping her designer purse. The priest instinctively crossed himself, taking a hurried step away from the altar.
The screen behind Marcus changed from Lucian’s face to grainy, black-and-white security footage from our private home garage. The glowing timestamp in the corner showed 2:14 a.m., exactly three days before Lucian’s fatal crash.
A figure wearing a dark, oversized coat entered the frame through the side access door. The camera angle sharpened, zooming in as the person moved cautiously beneath the chassis of the Aston Martin. A gloved hand appeared in the light, holding a small, specialized cutting tool. Then, another camera angle shifted, clearly illuminating the person's face as they looked up at a sudden noise.
It was Victoria.
Someone in the middle of the cathedral shouted, “Oh my God!”
Lucian’s voice returned, now quieter, sounding almost unbearably sad.
“You thought the garage camera system had been disabled. I replaced it covertly after the first warning from my mechanic. You thought the car would fail on the highway before I could finish the asset transfer. You were right about one thing, Mother. I did not have enough time.”
I pressed a trembling hand to my mouth to stifle a sob.
My grief fundamentally changed shape in that very moment. Until then, Lucian had died in an accident. A terrible, heartbreaking accident, but one without human intention. Now, his death became a locked room, and a murderer was standing right beside me.
“I loved you once, because children are biologically built to love their mothers,” Lucian said softly from the screen. “But love is not a permission slip to devour what your child built. You killed me for an inheritance I had already moved far beyond your reach.”
Victoria sobbed hysterically from the cold floor, her veil torn. “It is fake! It is a deepfake! He made this to ruin me! He was sick! He hated me!”
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Marcus Reed stepped forward. The two men beside him opened their jackets, and silver police badges caught the bright projector light.
“Victoria Ashcroft,” the lead detective said, his voice echoing off the stone. “You are under arrest on suspicion of conspiracy and premeditated murder.”
