Chapter 5
Mary nearly had a heart attack when I showed her the photos.
We met in the park, on a bench far from any security cameras. She scrolled through the images on my phone with shaking hands, her face cycling through disbelief, horror, and finally—cold, murderous rage.
"He hired her." Mary's voice was barely a whisper. "He paid someone to throw acid at you. His own girlfriend. Why? Why would he—"
"Money." The word tasted like ash. "My family's trust fund. I inherited forty million when my parents died. The fund releases to my spouse if I become permanently incapacitated—or if I die."
Mary looked up at me, realization dawning. "The blindness triggered the incapacitation clause."
"He gained control of the fund eighteen months after the attack. It's been slowly draining ever since. But the life insurance—that's separate. That's his endgame."
"Eight million more when you die."
"When I die." I said it flatly, as if discussing the weather. "Which, at the rate Serena's poisoning me, would probably have happened within the next six months. Liver failure. Quiet. 'Natural.'"
Mary grabbed my hands. "We're going to the FBI. Today. Right now."
"After the dinner party."
"Ivy, are you insane?! Every day you stay in that house, she's poisoning you!"
"I haven't eaten her food in two weeks." I squeezed her hands. "I've been dumping it and eating protein bars I hid in the bathroom ceiling. I'm not getting worse."
Mary stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "You've been... hiding food... in the ceiling."
"Blind woman habits. He never checks." I almost smiled. "Besides, I need the dinner party. I need witnesses."
"For what?"
"For the moment she sees that I can see."
Mary went quiet. Then she said, "You want her to panic."
"I want her to panic in front of forty people. I want Kieran to panic. And I want every single one of their rich, connected friends to see it—so that no amount of money or lawyers can make it disappear."
Mary let out a long breath. "You beautiful, terrifying woman."
That evening, back at home, Kieran was unusually attentive. He brought me flowers—I could smell lilies—and sat beside me on the couch, running his fingers through my hair.
"The dinner's on Saturday," he said. "I've hired a stylist to help you get ready. I want you to look beautiful."
My stomach turned, but I kept my voice light. "You want to show off your blind wife to your business partners?"
He laughed—warm, easy, practiced. "I want to show off my gorgeous wife. Besides, everyone's been asking about you. They're worried."
*They're worried because you've told them I'm deteriorating. You're setting the stage.*
"That's sweet," I murmured. "Will Serena be there?"
A pause—just half a second too long. "Of course. She's organizing the whole event."
"How helpful of her."
He kissed my forehead. "I don't know what I'd do without her."
*You'd have to find another accomplice, that's what.*
That night, Serena left the house. I heard the garage door open, her car pulling out. Kieran was already asleep after two glasses of whiskey—his nightly ritual that guaranteed he wouldn't stir until morning.
I crept to the guest room—her room.
Her laptop was password-protected, but her tablet wasn't. And her email was still logged in.
I scrolled through months of messages. Photos of me—taken without my knowledge—sent to Kieran with captions:
*"She ate all of it today. The levels should be building nicely."*
*"She looked shaky this morning. Won't be long now."*
*"Found her crying in the bathroom. She still has no idea. LOL."*
And Kieran's replies:
*"Good. Keep the doses steady. Don't rush it."*
*"The doctor I hired will sign the death certificate. Liver failure from 'autoimmune complications.'"*
*"When this is done, it's you and me. I promise."*
I took photos of everything. Every message. Every timestamp.
Then I opened her photo gallery and found something that made my blood freeze.
A selfie—Serena, before the facial surgery, holding a vial of liquid. Behind her, reflected in a mirror, stood Kieran.
He was there. The night of the acid attack.
He watched.
We met in the park, on a bench far from any security cameras. She scrolled through the images on my phone with shaking hands, her face cycling through disbelief, horror, and finally—cold, murderous rage.
"He hired her." Mary's voice was barely a whisper. "He paid someone to throw acid at you. His own girlfriend. Why? Why would he—"
"Money." The word tasted like ash. "My family's trust fund. I inherited forty million when my parents died. The fund releases to my spouse if I become permanently incapacitated—or if I die."
Mary looked up at me, realization dawning. "The blindness triggered the incapacitation clause."
"He gained control of the fund eighteen months after the attack. It's been slowly draining ever since. But the life insurance—that's separate. That's his endgame."
"Eight million more when you die."
"When I die." I said it flatly, as if discussing the weather. "Which, at the rate Serena's poisoning me, would probably have happened within the next six months. Liver failure. Quiet. 'Natural.'"
Mary grabbed my hands. "We're going to the FBI. Today. Right now."
"After the dinner party."
"Ivy, are you insane?! Every day you stay in that house, she's poisoning you!"
"I haven't eaten her food in two weeks." I squeezed her hands. "I've been dumping it and eating protein bars I hid in the bathroom ceiling. I'm not getting worse."
Mary stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "You've been... hiding food... in the ceiling."
"Blind woman habits. He never checks." I almost smiled. "Besides, I need the dinner party. I need witnesses."
"For what?"
"For the moment she sees that I can see."
Mary went quiet. Then she said, "You want her to panic."
"I want her to panic in front of forty people. I want Kieran to panic. And I want every single one of their rich, connected friends to see it—so that no amount of money or lawyers can make it disappear."
Mary let out a long breath. "You beautiful, terrifying woman."
That evening, back at home, Kieran was unusually attentive. He brought me flowers—I could smell lilies—and sat beside me on the couch, running his fingers through my hair.
"The dinner's on Saturday," he said. "I've hired a stylist to help you get ready. I want you to look beautiful."
My stomach turned, but I kept my voice light. "You want to show off your blind wife to your business partners?"
He laughed—warm, easy, practiced. "I want to show off my gorgeous wife. Besides, everyone's been asking about you. They're worried."
*They're worried because you've told them I'm deteriorating. You're setting the stage.*
"That's sweet," I murmured. "Will Serena be there?"
A pause—just half a second too long. "Of course. She's organizing the whole event."
"How helpful of her."
He kissed my forehead. "I don't know what I'd do without her."
*You'd have to find another accomplice, that's what.*
That night, Serena left the house. I heard the garage door open, her car pulling out. Kieran was already asleep after two glasses of whiskey—his nightly ritual that guaranteed he wouldn't stir until morning.
I crept to the guest room—her room.
Her laptop was password-protected, but her tablet wasn't. And her email was still logged in.
I scrolled through months of messages. Photos of me—taken without my knowledge—sent to Kieran with captions:
*"She ate all of it today. The levels should be building nicely."*
*"She looked shaky this morning. Won't be long now."*
*"Found her crying in the bathroom. She still has no idea. LOL."*
And Kieran's replies:
*"Good. Keep the doses steady. Don't rush it."*
*"The doctor I hired will sign the death certificate. Liver failure from 'autoimmune complications.'"*
*"When this is done, it's you and me. I promise."*
I took photos of everything. Every message. Every timestamp.
Then I opened her photo gallery and found something that made my blood freeze.
A selfie—Serena, before the facial surgery, holding a vial of liquid. Behind her, reflected in a mirror, stood Kieran.
He was there. The night of the acid attack.
He watched.