Chapter 6 - The Setup in the Study
Neil parked his Audi near the grand double doors, hopped out, and strode up the marble steps without waiting for me. He pushed the heavy oak doors open, holding them for me with an impatient, condescending gesture.
"Inside, Clara. Let's get this over with."
I unbuckled Toby from his car seat, cradling him tightly against my chest, and stepped over the threshold into the opulent foyer. The mansion smelled of heavy beeswax, expensive lilies, and old money.
"Neil, where is the counselor?" I asked, looking down the cavernous hallway. "Where is Mr. Sterling?"
"They're waiting in my father's old study," Neil lied smoothly, grabbing my elbow and guiding me down the corridor with unnecessary firmness. "Keep moving."
He pushed open the heavy mahogany door to the study.
The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint amber glow of a single desk lamp. Sitting behind the massive mahogany desk was Eleanor Vance, swirling a glass of amber scotch, looking like a queen presiding over a kangaroo court. Standing beside her wasn't a family attorney; it was two burly, thick-necked men in dark suits holding clipboards—private security contractors specializing in involuntary transport and private institutionalization.
The trap had snapped shut.
"Ah, the ungrateful peasant has arrived," Eleanor drawled, taking a slow sip of her scotch as she surveyed me with undisguised venom. "Close the door, Neil. Lock it."
Neil clicked the heavy brass deadbolt into place with a sharp, echoing thud.
I didn't cower. I didn't scream. I stood firmly in the center of the Persian rug, holding Toby securely against my shoulder, and stared straight back at my mother-in-law.
"Where is the attorney, Eleanor?" I asked, my voice ringing out clearly through the silent study. "Where is the family counselor? Or did you realize that actual legal professionals wouldn't sign off on an illegal kidnapping?"
Eleanor’s face contorted into an ugly snarl. She slammed her glass down on the desk, the scotch splashing over the rim. "You arrogant little trash! After everything my son provided for you—after I spent thousands of dollars importing royal European nourishment to save your sickly infant—you throw it in the trash and accuse me of crimes?"
"You didn't buy baby formula, Eleanor," I said, my voice dropping into an icy, razor-sharp whisper that made Neil flinch. "You bought industrial-grade organophosphate solvent. You tried to poison my four-month-old son."
Neil spun around, staring at his mother in absolute shock. "What? Mother, what is she talking about?"
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"She's having a psychotic break, Neil!" Eleanor shrieked, standing up from her leather chair, her face flushed with panic. "She’s hallucinating! Look at her! She’s dangerous to herself and the child! Gentlemen, take the infant from her hands now!"
The two private security guards lunged forward, their heavy hands reaching out to wrench Toby away from my chest.
