“Strange,” he murmurs, bringing a hand to his chest. “I feel... dizzy.”
“Hmm.” I fold my hands in my lap. “Maybe you should lie down.”
He squints at me. “You didn’t... You wouldn’t...” He tries to laugh, but it comes out garbled, slurred.
“Are you okay?” I ask, eyes wide with mock concern. “Do you need me to get you something?”
His eyes widen slightly. His hand trembles.
“I think—I think I’m having a heart—”
I leap up, gasping. “Oh my God, Dad! Should I call someone?”
He nods frantically now, sweating, color draining from his face. “Call an ambulance—Ellie—hurry—”
I reach for my phone. I pretend to dial. I even put it to my ear and say a few panicked words to no one.
Then I look at him. And I smile. “Sure thing, Dad.”
He reaches toward me, but his hand falls short. He clutches his chest, gasping, his breath coming in short, wet bursts.
“I loved you,” he tries to say, but it’s too late for lies.
I walk slowly to the door, pause, and glance back. He’s slumped in his chair, one hand still twitching, the other gripping the armrest like it’s a lifeline.
“I believe you,” I whisper.
Then I walk out. And close the door behind me.
I open the burner phone, shooting a quick text message to Kat’s anonymous email address.
It is done.
I smile as I descend the elevator, slow and luxurious, like the world is finally moving at my speed.
For the first time in my life, I feel free.
Not the kind of freedom they sell you in glossy magazines or spin into overpriced yoga retreats. Not the lie Jack fed me over dinner, or the one my father laced into trust funds and tailored suits. This is the sharp-edged, blood-won kind. The kind you take when you’ve been denied everything.
The elevator dings. The doors open to the private lobby. The doorman nods at me, unaware that the man upstairs—the one who used to own this building, this block, half the city—won’t be answering emails anymore.
I step out into the warm Manhattan night, the air thick with sirens and smog and the faint, electric scent of summer. I toss the burner phone into the nearest trash can.
A sleek black car idles at the curb. The passenger-side window rolls down. Aubrey smiles at me from behind oversized sunglasses. Even in chaos, she looks unbothered.
“Everything go down smooth?” she asks, as I slide into the leather seat.
I click the door shut behind me and exhale slowly, savoring it. “Like honey.”
She grins. “Told you it would.”
We pull away from the curb. I glance once at the tower disappearing behind us, the glass walls catching the city lights like a dying god gasping for breath. Good riddance.
In my lap sits a slim black folder—my father’s final will and testament, the revised version I retrieved from the locked cabinet in his office this morning. Signed. Stamped. Notarized. Names changed. Assets divided. It wasn't hard to get him to update it when I'd been micro-dosing him with tainted milk and honey the last few weeks. With his decision-making skills compromised and his mind more impressionable, I was able to alter the inheritance as I saw fit.
One-third to Kat—my mother, long presumed dead, now very much alive and playing her cards closer than anyone.
One-third to Aubrey, who slid through every door unnoticed until it was too late for anyone to stop her.
