Chapter 7
The black Maybach tore through the heavy iron gates of the heavily guarded Hamptons estate.
The bodyguards dragged Annabelle up the grand staircase. They shoved her into a guest bedroom on the second floor facing the ocean.
The heavy oak door slammed shut. The deadbolt clicked loudly from the outside.
Annabelle scrambled to her feet. She ran to the window and grabbed the brass handles. She pushed with all her might. It didn't budge. Invisible reinforced locks.
She pressed her forehead against the cold glass. Outside, the gray Atlantic Ocean raged, violently smashing against the jagged black rocks below the cliff.
She turned around. The landline cord had been ripped out of the wall. She was completely cut off from the world.
Hours bled into the evening. The room grew dark.
The deadbolt clicked. Arthur, the elderly butler who had served the Ware family for thirty years, walked in carrying a silver tray.
He kept his eyes glued to the floor. He set the tray of food on the small table. Annabelle saw a flicker of deep pity in his wrinkled face.
"Arthur," Annabelle whispered, stepping toward him. "Please. Let me use your phone."
Arthur gave a microscopic shake of his head. He tapped his own chest, then pointed a discreet finger at the smoke detector on the ceiling. Cameras. Audio. Everywhere.
Suddenly, chaotic footsteps thundered down the hallway. Static crackled from the bodyguards' radios.
The bedroom door was thrown open.
Julian stormed in. He was pale, his chest heaving. He gripped his cell phone so tightly his knuckles were white.
He didn't even look at Annabelle. He marched straight to the hidden wall safe behind the painting and began punching in the code to grab his passport.
"What new psychotic break are you having now?" Annabelle asked, her voice dripping with venom.
Julian whipped his head around. His eyes were bloodshot. "Jocelyne slit her wrists in the penthouse bathroom."
Annabelle blinked. Then, a short, dark laugh escaped her throat.
"Wow," Annabelle mocked, crossing her arms. "Her PR team is getting lazy. That script is pathetic. Did she use a butter knife?"
Julian's face contorted with pure rage. He crossed the room in two strides and grabbed the lapels of her jacket. He slammed her against the wall.
"If she dies," Julian roared, spit flying from his lips, "I will bury you with her."
Annabelle didn't flinch. She stared right back into his furious eyes. "Make sure she's actually dead before you send the invite."
Julian shoved her away in disgust, as if touching her burned his skin.
He turned on his heel and stormed out. The bodyguards scrambled after him.
A minute later, the deafening roar of a helicopter engine shook the windows. Annabelle watched the chopper lift off the lawn, heading back to Manhattan.
The room fell into a suffocating silence.
Annabelle slid down the wall until she hit the floor. She pulled her knees to her chest. Her body began to shake uncontrollably.
It wasn't fear. It was pure, unadulterated disgust for the man she had loved.
Arthur stood quietly in the doorway. He had watched the entire exchange.
He let out a heavy sigh. He walked over and handed her a glass of warm water.
As Annabelle took the glass, Arthur leaned in. His lips barely moved.
"Midnight," Arthur whispered rapidly. "Do not fall asleep."
Annabelle's head snapped up. She stared at the old butler, a spark of wild disbelief igniting in her eyes.
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