Chapter 17: The Unraveling
The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by Eleanor’s strained coughing as she pulled herself up using a velvet ottoman. Lydia froze, the act dropping for a fraction of a second before she doubled down. "Grant, honey, she's having an episode. She came at me—"
"Stop," Grant interrupted, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thick manila envelope. "I hired a private investigator a month ago. After the discrepancies in the charity fund. After the 'lost' heirlooms." He tossed the envelope at Lydia's feet. Glossy photos spilled out across the marble—images of Lydia meeting with known forgers, bank records under different aliases, and worst of all, a timeline of her previous two fiancés, both of whom had died in tragic, unresolved accidents shortly after their bank accounts were drained.
Lydia stared at the photos, the blood draining from her face. The game was up. But she was too close. The brass key was still in Eleanor’s overturned purse just inches from her trembling hands.
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"The police are on their way, Lydia," Grant said, taking a step forward. "It's over."
But Lydia wasn't one to surrender. With a sudden, vicious speed, she kicked the heavy silver tray of champagne flutes on the table beside her. It crashed into Grant, sending him stumbling back. In a flash of white lace and tulle, she dove for the purse, her fingers closing around the cold, heavy brass of the safety deposit key.
