Penelope hesitates only a beat. Then she sets the album down on the side chair and steps closer.
She reaches into the purse.
Her hand disappears inside.
A moment later, she withdraws Ivy’s phone, the glittery case unmistakable even in grainy black and white.
She taps the screen. It lights up.
I watch her face carefully.
Her eyes scan the lock screen. Her brows lift. And then her mouth curves into a slow, deliberate smile.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
She doesn’t put the phone back.
She keeps it in her hand, leans against the edge of the desk, crosses her ankles, unhurried, thoughtful, as if considering her next move.
7:42 PM.
The library doors open. Ivy walks in. She stops dead when she sees Penelope.
I see Ivy’s shoulders stiffen.
They speak briefly. I can’t hear what is said, but the body language is screaming. Penelope looks calm, relaxed, entitled. Ivy looks confused, defensive.
And then, Penelope lifts the hand holding the phone. She turns the screen toward Ivy.
I watch Ivy’s reaction. She flinches as if she’s been slapped. She takes a step back, shaking her head.
Then she takes a step forward. Her hands come up, palms open.
Pleading.
She isn’t arguing. She is begging.
I watch Ivy. She gestures to the room, to the house. She looks small, cornered, and utterly terrified.
Her expression is one of absolute, cold victory. She says something back, short, sharp. A command it seems.
She pulls out her own phone and takes a photo of Ivy's screen. Then she sets Ivy's phone down on the desk, out of Ivy's reach.
Penelope picks up the photo album from the chair. She walks toward the door. I switch back to the hallway camera.
7:58 PM. Penelope walks out. She looks triumphant.
8:02 PM. Ivy runs out.
She isn’t skipping. She’s clutching the phone to her chest. She looks shattered.
I stare at the screen. The silence in the room is deafening.
I don’t need audio to know what happened. I’ve seen that dynamic in a thousand boardrooms. It’s a hostile takeover.
It wasn’t a transaction. It wasn’t “cold feet.”
