Chapter 13: Silent Rebellion

The Vanclair mansion’s library was a mausoleum of leather-bound books and unspoken secrets. Stephanie sat stiffly in a wingback chair, her fingers tracing the gilded edge of a family photo album Leon had forced her to display for that afternoon’s “casual” interview with a society magazine. The interviewer had left an hour ago, charmed by Leon’s rehearsed anecdotes about “marital bliss,” but the cloying scent of his cologne still clung to the air.

“Smile wider,” he’d whispered through gritted teeth when the photographer raised his lens. *“Or I’ll cancel your obstetric appointment next week.”

She’d obeyed, her cheeks aching.

Now, alone, she reached for the locket at her throat—a cheap silver heart she’d owned since childhood, the only thing the Vanclairs hadn’t confiscated. Inside, she’d hidden a slip of paper with Jake’s latest instructions: Meet me at the boathouse. Midnight.

The locket snapped shut as the library door creaked open.

“Still here?” Leon lingered in the doorway, his gaze sharp. “You should rest. For the baby.”

The way he said it—like the child was a transaction, not a life—made her stomach twist. “I will,” she said, rising slowly, her hand cradling her swollen abdomen. A performance. A lie.

His eyes narrowed, tracking her every movement as she left.

---

*Flashback: Five Years Earlier*

Rain lashed against the windows of the Vanclair estate’s old conservatory, the glass panes rattling like bones. A younger Jake, his hair longer, his knuckles raw from a recent fight, slammed a file onto the wrought-iron table between him and Leon.

“Adriana’s a con artist,” Jake snarled. “She’s been siphoning funds from your accounts. From *Father’s* accounts.”

Leon, lounging in a velvet armchair with a tumbler of scotch, didn’t glance at the documents. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, little brother.”

“Open your eyes!” Jake shoved the papers closer, bank statements flagged in red. “She’s using you. The charity galas, the vacations—it’s all a front. She’s funneling money to her ex in Monaco.”

Leon’s smile turned venomous. “And you’re suddenly an expert on loyalty? The same man who fucked his way through Dad’s secretaries?”

Jake’s fist clenched. “This isn’t about me. She’s going to ruin you.”

“No.” Leon rose, his voice a blade. “You’re going to ruin *us*. Again.” He tore the papers in half, the pieces fluttering to the floor like ash. “Get out. And if you ever speak against Adriana again, I’ll disown you myself.”

Jake stared at him, rain dripping from his hair. “You’ll regret this.”

“Doubt it.”

The door slammed. The beginning of the end.

---

*Present Day*

Midnight at the boathouse. Rotting wood groaned under Stephanie’s feet as she slipped inside, the smell of mildew and motor oil sharp in her nostrils. Jake stood in the shadows, a duffel bag at his feet.

“You’re late,” he said, but there was no anger in it.

“Leon had the guards check my room twice tonight.” She hugged her arms, the lake’s cold breath seeping through her thin sweater. “He’s paranoid.”

“Good.” Jake unzipped the bag, revealing stacks of euros, a forged passport, and a burner phone. “Means we’re close.” He handed her a velvet jewelry pouch. “Pawn these in the city. Untraceable.”

Stephanie peeked inside—diamond earrings, the emerald brooch Marguerite had “gifted” her at the wedding. “She’ll notice they’re gone.”

“By then, you’ll be gone too.” His eyes met hers. “Two weeks. That’s all I need to finalize the route.”

A floorboard creaked overhead. They froze.

“Raccoons,” Jake muttered after a tense silence. “But we should go.”

Stephanie clutched the bag to her chest. “Why are you doing this? After what Leon did to you…”

Jake’s jaw tightened. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then: “Adriana happened to me first.”

---

*The Performance*

Stephanie learned to cry on command.

At dinner parties, she’d gaze adoringly at Leon, her hand resting on his arm, while reciting scripted lines about their “love story.” *We met at a charity auction… He proposed in Paris…* Lies, garnished with a champagne smile.

At night, she smuggled cash into the hollowed-out pages of nursery books. *Goodnight Moon* held enough euros to buy a plane ticket.

But Leon watched. Always.

“You’ve been… *agreeable* lately,” he remarked one evening, swirling his wine as they sat by the fireplace. The flames cast demonic shadows across his face.

Stephanie knit a tiny yellow bootie, her needles clicking like a ticking clock. “I want what’s best for the baby.”

“Do you?” He leaned forward, his voice silken. “Because yesterday, the staff mentioned you’ve taken up *gardening*. Odd, given your allergies.”

Her blood turned to ice. She’d met Jake by the rose bushes that morning, passing him a USB drive of Leon’s financial records.

“Fresh air helps the nausea,” she said evenly.

Leon studied her, then smiled. “Of course.”

The next day, security cameras appeared in her bedroom.

---

*The Noose Tightens*

The cameras were small, discreet—lenses nestled in the ceiling’s ornate molding. But Stephanie felt them like teeth at her throat.

She changed clothes in the ensuite bathroom, the only blind spot. She whispered plans to Jake through the burner phone while the shower ran. She hid maps beneath the mattress, her handwriting cramped and frantic.

But paranoia gnawed at her. Leon’s “gifts” grew oppressive: a new diamond bracelet with a GPS tracker she couldn’t remove. A prenatal massage therapist who asked too many questions.

Then, the final stroke: Marguerite announced she’d accompany Stephanie to every doctor’s visit. *“For the baby’s sake,”* she’d simpered, her grip bruising Stephanie’s arm.

The charity gala was a sea of sequins and spite. Stephanie floated through the crowd in a silver gown, her smile welded on. She’d slipped her GPS bracelet onto a waiter’s tray an hour ago. Jake’s contact would disable it. *Two days*, he’d said. *Then we move.*

In the restroom, she splashed water on her face, the faucet’s growl drowning her shaky breaths. The door swung open.

Adriana.

She looked like vengeance in red satin, her curls a crown of flames. “Hello, Stephanie.” The name dripped mockery.

Stephanie reached for a towel. “This is the women’s room. Men’s is down the hall.”

Adriana laughed, blocking the exit. “Still playing dumb? I know about Jake. About your little *escape*.”

Ice flooded Stephanie’s veins. “I don’t—”

“Save it.” Adriana stepped closer, her perfume choking the air. “Leon’s mine. Always has been. You think a knocked-up gold digger and a disgraced drunk can outsmart me?” She yanked Stephanie’s locket, the chain biting into her neck. “Run if you want. But remember—” Her lips grazed Stephanie’s ear, a lover’s threat. “I always win.”

The door slammed. The locket chain snapped, clattering into the sink.

Stephanie stared at her reflection—pale, trembling, but alive.

*Two days.*

She pocketed the broken locket and walked out, her heels clicking like a countdown.