She pauses at the threshold, looking back over her shoulder. “Oh, and Star? This conversation never happened. Another thing to consider: Cillian hates liars almost as much as he hates manipulation. Choose wisely.”
The door closes behind her.
I can’t move. Mary’s threats have turned my limbs to stone, my thoughts to static. There has to be a way out that doesn’t end with losing Cillian or watching my work crumble. There has to be. But Mary has been building this trap for longer than I’ve been in Cillian’s life, and every escape route I imagine slams into another locked door.
My hands tremble as I reach for the red folder again, flipping through pages of my own life curated by someone who wants to destroy me. How long has she been watching? Planning? The careful documentation of my projects, my finances, my personal communications—it’s a violation that goes beyond intimidation into something truly sinister.
The doorknob turns with a soft click that makes me jump. I slam the folder shut, heart hammering as the door opens just wide enough for a figure to slip through. Not Mary returning to twist the knife further, but Bea. She closes the door quietly behind her, eyes darting nervously before turning the lock.
“She’ll be back soon,” Bea whispers, her voice barely audible. She remains by the door, fingers worrying the hem of her sweater. “She’s gone to intercept Arthur and Cillian, to make sure they don’t finish too quickly.”
I stare at her, trying to read her presence. Ally? Spy?
“Did she send you to make sure I’m properly terrified?” I ask, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.
She shakes her head, taking a tentative step forward. “No. She doesn’t know I’m here.” Her fingers continue their restless movement, twisting the wool. “I saw her leaving. I know what she does in this room.”
She approaches the desk cautiously, as if it might suddenly rear up and bite her. Her gaze falls on the folders, recognition flickering across her features. “Black for financial control, red for personal destruction,” she murmurs. “She’s nothing if not consistent.”
The observation, so matter-of-fact about something so horrifying, catches me off guard. “You’ve seen these before.”
“Not yours specifically. But yes, I’ve seen what Mary can do with a folder and a fountain pen.”
She glances again at the door, her hands wringing together now. “She’s not bluffing. Whatever she threatened—your work, your reputation, your funding—she’ll do it all without hesitation.”
“How can you be sure?” I ask, though I already know the answer. Mary’s calculation, her meticulous research, her confident ultimatum, did not feel like bluffs.
“Because she ruined my father,” she says simply, each word heavy with old pain. “When he objected to my engagement to Cillian. When he tried to warn me that the Browns would swallow me whole. He owned a small investment firm. Nothing like the Brown empire, but successful. Respected. Three weeks after he told me not to marry Cillian, hisbiggest clients mysteriously withdrew. Regulatory investigations appeared from nowhere. Rumors started circulating about ethical violations.”
My stomach tightens as she continues. “By our wedding day, he was facing bankruptcy and possible criminal charges. All of it engineered so perfectly that even I couldn’t prove Mary was behind it.” She looks up, her eyes hollow. “The charges were dropped the day after I said ‘I do.’ The damage was already done, of course. His reputation was ruined. He moved to Arizona. We barely speak now.”
The revelation sits between us, ugly and undeniable. I think of my own father, his small vineyard, his pride in my art career. How easily Mary could crush him too.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.
“Because she lied to me. Said that you are trying to destroy Cillian, and though we never loved each other, I still have a sense of loyalty to him.”
“Does Cillian know what she’s capable of?”
Bea shakes her head slowly. “Not the extent of it. She’s careful.” She hesitates, then adds, “He’d fight her if he knew. But fighting Mary is like trying to catch a shadow.”
She stands abruptly, moving back toward the door. Her hand reaches for the lock, then pauses. “You seem different,” she says quietly. “From what I expected. From what Mary described.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That you were using him. That you saw him as a meal ticket, a way to advance your career. I should have known better than to believe anything Mary says. She twists truth until it becomes whatever weapon she needs. Don’t let Cillian be like Arthur. He tries, but he loves his wife and gets sucked right back in. Now he’s back to occupying Cillian so his wife can corner you and me. That’s why she’s not accepting of you. You have no dark secrets or money she can use.”
Her fingers turn the lock with practiced quietness. She opens the door a crack, peering into the hallway to ensure it’s empty.
“I need to go. She can’t find me here.” Bea turns back one last time, her hand resting on the doorknob. “I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I never wanted to be part of this.”
The door closes behind her with a soft click, leaving me alone again.
I sink back into the chair, my mind racing through scenarios. If I leave Cillian, I save my career, my projects, the children who benefit from my art therapy work. If I stay with him, I potentially lose everything I’ve built, everything that defines me beyond our relationship.
And telling him the truth about Mary’s threats? Bea’s warning echoes in my mind. Even if Cillian believed me, even if he stood against his mother, Mary has clearly spent years building her system of control. I truly believe she’d destroy her own son if she believes it protects him and the Brown legacy.
Time is running out. Soon Cillian will finish with Arthur. Soon Mary will return. Soon I’ll have to choose—the man I love or everything else I’ve fought for.
