2His Fiancée Pressed a Pillow Over His Mother’s Face—But the Black Housekeeper Knew Exactly Why Evelyn Had to Die Before the Wedding

Before Naomi could ask another question, the handle of the suite door rattled violently.

A heavy fist pounded against the wood.

“Open the door! Open it now!”

It wasn't the security guard’s voice. It was Dr. Malcolm Voss.

Naomi acted instantly. She unhooked the tainted IV bag from the stand, replaced it with a fresh bag of sterile saline from the supply cart, and stuffed the coded bag into her deep scrub pocket.

“Naomi, I know you’re in there!” Voss shouted through the door. “Security is overriding the lock!”

Evelyn’s eyes locked onto Naomi’s with desperate lucidity. “Run, Naomi. If she finds the documents... she’ll kill Adrian too. She has... the board votes.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Naomi whispered.

“You have to,” Evelyn commanded, her voice suddenly regaining a fraction of its former aristocratic steel. “She can't kill me if the public is watching. Adrian called a press conference for nine tomorrow morning to announce the IPO. If I’m dead before then, the stock triggers an automatic SEC audit. She needs me alive until nine.”

The electronic lock beeped three times.

The deadbolt snapped back.

Naomi didn't try to hide behind the door. She moved to the French doors leading out onto the fourth-floor stone balcony. The rain was pouring in sheets now, wind whipping through the manicured grounds below.

The suite door swung open.

Dr. Voss stepped into the room, flanked by two armed guards and Celeste Arden.

Celeste was dressed in an impeccably tailored black trench coat, her hair swept back into an elegant chignon, her face devoid of any tears now. She looked at Naomi standing by the open balcony doors, the cold rain blowing her hair across her face.

“Well, well,” Celeste murmured, stepping into the room with slow, predatory grace. “The faithful servant returns to the scene of the crime.”

Dr. Voss immediately rushed to Evelyn’s bedside, checking the monitors with exaggerated urgency. “She tampered with the IV! Call the state police! We have an attempted murder in progress!”

“Don't bother with the state police just yet, Malcolm,” Celeste said, raising a slender hand. She turned her cold, magnificent green eyes onto Naomi. “Hello, Naomi. Did Evelyn tell you the bedtime story? Did she tell you how the great Arthur Vale drove my father to hang himself in a federal cage over money Arthur stole?”

“Your father was a thief, Celeste,” Naomi said, standing tall against the storm behind her. “And you’re just a killer in an expensive dress.”

Celeste smiled—a slow, terrifying stretch of red lips.

“My father was a visionary who trusted the wrong family,” she said, her voice dropping to a vicious whisper. “And by noon tomorrow, every single dime of Arthur Vale’s empire will belong to me. Adrian will sign the survivorship agreement at the altar, thinking he’s protecting his legacy. And then... a sudden stroke. Just like his dear old dad.”

“Adrian will see through you,” Naomi said.

“Adrian sees what I give him to see,” Celeste laughed softly. “He’s weak. He’s vain. He needs a woman to tell him he’s a genius. Just like his father did.”

Celeste nodded to the two armed guards.

“Take her to the cellar,” Celeste ordered calmly. “A fatal overdose of the morphine she stole from Greenwich Hospital. It will be such a tragic story for the morning papers: *Disgruntled Housekeeper Commits Suicide After Attempting to Poison Matriarch.*”

The guards stepped forward, reaching for their holstered weapons.

Naomi didn't scream.

She reached behind her back, gripped the heavy brass fire extinguisher she had quietly dislodged from the balcony wall moments before, and hurled it through the plate-glass window of the adjacent sunroom.

The glass shattered with an explosive, deafening roar.

Alarms wailed through the entire floor. High-decibel sirens screamed from the ceiling. Emergency fire doors began to drop automatically down the hallway.