Chapter 3 - The Platinum Rose
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Phoebe realized the script was flipping. The men she manipulated were being stripped of their power, and her golden goose was suddenly wielding a butcher knife.
She dropped to her knees on the cold marble, clasping her hands together in a portrait of divine agony. “Miss Blair, please! I beg you! They only defended me because they’re kindhearted. If you want to punish someone, punish me. It’s my fault for falling!”
“How touching,” I said, looking down at her. “You perform beautifully, Phoebe. Have you considered theater?”
Her theatrical sobs faltered. She looked up at me, genuinely confused by my lack of empathy.
As she reached up to wipe a stray tear from her cheek, the sleeve of her oversized, knitted sweater slipped down. The foyer lights caught the sudden, blinding flash of diamonds on her wrist.
My breath caught in my throat.
It was a platinum setting. Brilliant blue-white stones, perfectly cut, wrapping around a delicate chain. And at the center, a custom clasp shaped like a tiny, intricate rose.
It was my mother’s bracelet.
My father had purchased that exact piece at a Sotheby's auction in Geneva for ten million dollars. In the original novel, Phoebe had worn it on her wedding day, parading it around after Blair was already dead and buried. But she wasn't supposed to have it now. Not before the murder. Not before the inheritance changed hands.
The room seemed to tilt on its axis, zooming in until the only thing I could see was that stolen platinum rose.
“Phoebe,” I said softly, the silence in the room amplifying my voice. “Where exactly did you get my dead mother’s bracelet?”
All the color drained from Phoebe’s face. She looked like a ghost.
From the kitchen doorway, Martha Whitlock—the head maid, and Phoebe’s mother—stopped so abruptly that the heavy silver tray she was carrying began to rattle violently against her trembling hands. The clattering sound filled the silent foyer.
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I looked from the shaking maid to the terrified daughter on the floor. It hit me like a physical blow. The betrayal hadn't started last night in the mountains.
The rot had been living inside my house for years.
