Chapter 6 - The Breakfast Performance
Arthur slept for twenty-three minutes before returning to Blackthorn Manor the next morning.
He did not look rested. That helped.
Catherine preferred her victims tired. Exhaustion made people easier to explain.
The breakfast room smelled of coffee, orange peel, and the lilies Stella had ordered for the center of the table. Arthur hated the flowers immediately. Elena had once told him lilies smelled like funerals.
He remembered that now.
Catherine sat at the head of the table reading three newspapers at once. Stella wore a pale blue dress and the expression of a woman who believed concern photographed well.
“You look awful,” Stella said.
Arthur poured coffee. “Good morning to you too.”
“I mean exhausted.”
“That’s much kinder.”
Catherine folded one paper. “The eastern utility system failed overnight.”
Arthur took a sip. “So you said.”
“Rodents chewed through part of the sensor line.”
“Very ambitious rodents.”
Catherine’s eyes lifted.
Arthur smiled mildly.
Stella asked, “Did you go down there?”
Arthur looked at her for exactly the right amount of time.
“Down where?”
Catherine answered before Stella could. “The old service basement.”
Arthur scratched his temple. “No.”
Stella watched him closely.
He let his hand shake when he lifted the coffee cup.
Catherine relaxed.
Arthur almost admired the cruelty of it. She needed him damaged enough to control, functional enough to run the empire she intended to inherit through him.
“You should take the week,” Catherine said.
“I’m taking forty-eight hours.”
“Silas recommends longer.”
“Silas recommends whatever keeps him invited to Christmas.”
Stella laughed.
Catherine did not.
“Your sarcasm is worse when you’re unwell.”
“Then I must be dying.”
A servant entered with toast.
Arthur watched Catherine butter hers with slow, elegant strokes.
Five children had lived beneath her feet.
Five.
He pictured Leo opening the refrigerator. Mia staring at stars. Sophie crying at an airplane. He imagined Catherine eating breakfast six floors above them while Elena rationed apples below.
His stomach turned.
Stella touched his wrist. “Arthur?”
He pulled away as if reaching for the marmalade.
“What?”
“You disappeared for a second.”
“Headache.”
Catherine and Stella exchanged a glance.
Arthur recognized the rhythm of it because he had seen versions of that look at board meetings for years: Catherine asked the question, someone else watched the reaction. He wondered how many breakfasts had actually been examinations disguised as family routine. The thought made the coffee taste metallic.
Arthur saw it.
That glance told him more than a confession would have.
Stella knew something.
Not everything. But enough.
After breakfast, Arthur walked to his study and closed the door. Marcus called through the secure handset hidden in a desk drawer.
“They’re settled.”
Arthur exhaled. “How are the kids?”
“Leo tried to microwave a spoon.”
Arthur closed his eyes. “Why?”
“He wanted to see if it would glow.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes. The microwave is emotionally damaged.”
Arthur almost laughed.
“Elena?”
“Watching the windows.”
His smile disappeared.
“She slept?”
“Maybe an hour.”
Arthur stared toward the garden.
“What about the DNA report?”
Marcus lowered his voice. “I had a second lab verify it. All five are yours. The marker is real too.”
“What is it?”
“Not disease by itself. A rare HLA pattern. Extremely useful for marrow compatibility.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened.
“With whom?”
“That’s the problem. Vale Biotech has private matching records, but they’re locked behind a medical subsidiary called Helix Crown.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“You signed the acquisition.”
Arthur went still.
“When?”
“Five years ago.”
Arthur did not remember.
Marcus continued. “Your signature is on every page.”
“After the fire.”
“Yes.”
“After Rowan started treating me.”
“Yes.”
Arthur opened a drawer and took out his migraine medication.
White pills. No markings except a tiny V.
“Get these tested.”
“You think they’re still dosing you?”
“I think my mother has been very interested in whether I take them.”
Arthur wrapped two tablets in paper.
A knock came at the study door.
He ended the call.
Stella entered without waiting.
“Your mother says you shouldn’t work.”
“My mother says many things.”
Stella walked around the desk.
She smelled expensive. Jasmine and something sharper.
“You scared me last night.”
Arthur looked at her.
“Did I?”
“You vanished.”
“I came back.”
“That isn’t the point.”
He studied her face.
Eight months engaged.
How much of it had been real?
He could not remember falling in love with her. He remembered dinners. Photographs. Charity events. He remembered Catherine saying, “Stella understands our world.”
He remembered Stella always knowing when his headaches were worst.
“Do you love me?” Arthur asked.
She blinked.
“What?”
“Simple question.”
“Of course I do.”
“Why?”
Her smile faltered.
“You’re exhausted.”
“Probably.”
She touched his cheek. “Go upstairs.”
Arthur looked at her hand.
A memory flashed.
Stella standing beside his hospital bed eighteen months earlier, handing Rowan a syringe.
Arthur jerked backward.
She froze.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Arthur—”
“Headache.”
He stood.
Stella’s eyes followed him.
He walked toward the door, then turned.
“Did you know Elena?”
The question struck her cleanly.
Her face changed for less than a second.
Arthur saw it.
“Who?” Stella asked.
He smiled.
“Exactly.”
He left her standing in the study.
At noon, Catherine summoned Silas Rowan to the manor.
Arthur watched from the upstairs balcony as the doctor crossed the marble foyer.
Catherine met him beneath the chandelier.
They spoke too quietly to hear.
Then Stella joined them.
Three people.
Three architects of a life Arthur could not remember choosing.
Arthur took out the old photograph of Elena and slipped it into his shirt pocket.
He whispered, “Not again.”
That evening, Catherine entered the unused east wing.
Arthur followed through the old servants’ corridor.
He watched her reach the hidden bookshelf.
She pressed her thumb to the reader.
The door opened.
Catherine descended.
Ten minutes later, a scream rose from beneath the house.
Not fear.
Rage.
“WHERE ARE THEY?”
Arthur stood in the dark corridor above and smiled for the first time all day.
Then Catherine shouted a name he had never heard before.
“CALL JULIAN. TELL HIM THE DONORS ARE GONE.”
Arthur’s smile vanished.
Donors.
May you like
Not children.
And whoever Julian was, Catherine feared losing him more than she feared Arthur remembering the truth.
