Part 3
For the very first time, a heavy realization dawned on me: perhaps the person who had vowed to guard me was the one slowly destroying me.
I slid my hand beneath the mattress and felt around until my fingers brushed against the recorder. Its miniature crimson light was still flashing. Clicking the stop button, I pulled the device tight against my chest.
I had no clue if it held enough proof to rescue me, nor did I know who had slipped it under my pillow in the first place.
Yet, I was certain of one thing. I needed an ally I could rely on, and only one name came to mind.
My father’s attorney. Arthur Whitmore had managed our family’s legal affairs for thirty-two years.
He had drafted my father’s will, overseen the estate transfers, and helped me set up a charitable foundation dedicated to supporting the families residing on our land.
Silas had always despised him.
Whenever Arthur stepped foot into Bellamy House, Silas conveniently found a reason to exit the room.
“He treats you like a child,” Silas had once remarked with annoyance.
“No,” I had answered. “He treats me like a client.”
Silas had chuckled, though there was zero amusement in his gaze. Back then, I assumed he was merely resentful of the deep trust between Arthur and my father. Now, however, I wondered if Arthur had spotted something I had stubbornly ignored.
I reached out and pressed the call button.
When the nurse walked in, I asked her to get in touch with my lawyer.
She paused, looking hesitant. “Should I ring your husband first?”
“No.” My reply was soft, yet unyielding. “I want Arthur Whitmore. Please let him know it’s an emergency. Tell him I must see him prior to tomorrow morning.”
She studied my features for a second before giving a slow nod. “I’ll make the call.”
Before she could turn away, I lightly caught her wrist. “One more favor. Please don’t mention this to my husband.”
Her expression shifted instantly. For the first time, I detected a flicker of fear in her eyes.
“I won’t,” she murmured, slipping quietly out of the room.
I waited until the shuffling noises in the hallway died down before activating the recorder once more. I needed to hear what it had managed to capture.
The opening seconds consisted merely of fabric rustling and the faint rumble of a cart wheeling down the corridor. Then, Silas’s voice broke through.
“You have seven days, Lenora.”
I squeezed my eyes shut as the recording pressed on.
“Do you really want to spend them making everything more difficult?”
A brief silence followed, then his voice returned, dropping to a lower register.
“You cannot take the estate with you.”
Another pause.
“Once the physicians declare you unfit to make decisions, I will gain the authority to manage the accounts. The property transfers are already drawn up. All I require is your signature, or enough time for the court to realize you can no longer handle your own affairs.”
My fingers tightened their grip on the device. He had drafted property paperwork, documents I had never signed.
Silas kept talking, completely oblivious to the fact that his words were being preserved.
“Your father should have made this simpler. He left everything to you, but failed to ensure you knew how to manage it. He truly believed you could safeguard the estate indefinitely.”
A cynical laugh echoed from the speaker.
“By the time Arthur figures out what I’ve done, the funds will be stashed somewhere he can never reach.”
A scraping sound indicated a chair shifting, followed by Silas’s final remark:
“Seven days. That’s all I need.”
The recording clicked off.
For several moments, I sat completely paralyzed. I was already aware that my husband coveted my money and my land. What I had never pictured, however, was him plotting to strip everything away while I was still breathing.
I replayed those final words. Seven days. That’s all I need.
My doctors had given me seven days to live. Silas had given himself seven days to plunder my estate. The coincidence felt far too cruel to dismiss.
I tucked the recorder back beneath my pillow and burst into tears—not because the prospect of death terrified me, but because the man who had shared my bed for three years might have been counting down the hours to my demise long before the doctors ever stepped foot in my room. And if he had engineered my illness, I had to uncover the truth before my time ran out entirely.
Arthur arrived a little past nine the following morning.
At seventy-two, he was tall with a slight stoop, a head of white hair, and a habit of taking off his spectacles whenever deep thought was required. I had known him since childhood; he had attended my father’s burial, stood beside me during the reading of the will, and helped me settle the estate without sacrificing a single acre.
He brought no flowers into my hospital room, carrying only a leather briefcase—the absolute sign that he took my message with utmost gravity.
“Lenora.” He walked up to the bed, observed my face, and halted. “Oh, my dear girl.” For a second, words seemed to fail him.
I reached out and grasped his hand. “Arthur, I need you to pay close attention.”
Pulling a chair up, he sat down. “I’m listening.”
“Silas is maneuvering to seize the estate. He has prepared property transfers and is operating under the assumption that I will either be deceased or incapacitated within a week.”
Arthur’s jaw set firmly. “Did he admit this to you?”
“I have it on tape.”
Retrieving the device from under the pillow, I handed it over. He listened intently without a single interruption. As Silas’s voice echoed through the space, Arthur’s complexion drained of color. By the time the audio stopped, he was cleaning his already spotless glasses with a handkerchief.
“Where did you acquire this?”
“A nurse gave it to me.”
“Which nurse?”
“I don’t know her name.”
Arthur glanced toward the doorway. “Did she impart anything else?”
“Only that my father had instructed her to deliver it whenever my husband became convinced I was dying.”
For the first time since walking in, Arthur looked genuinely stunned. He set the recorder down on the bedside table.
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
Remaining very still for a moment, Arthur leaned forward. “Lenora, there is a chapter from your father’s final year that I never shared with you.”
Trying to sit up, a sharp pain shot through my side. “What is it?”
He quickly adjusted the pillow supporting my back. “Your father grew deeply concerned about Silas long before he passed away.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “Why didn’t you inform me?”
“Because your father instructed me not to intervene unless concrete evidence of wrongdoing surfaced. He feared that discovering his suspicions prematurely might cause you to confront Silas before we fully understood his intentions.”
“What suspicions?”
Unzipping his briefcase, Arthur extracted a slender folder filled with bank statements, corporate filings, and letters bearing my father’s signature.
“Two months prior to his passing, your father uncovered that someone was probing into the estate’s financial framework—contacting banks, asking about trusts, and requesting confidential documents that should never have been released without your consent.”
“Was it Silas?”
“We suspected as much, but lacked proof.” Arthur flipped a page. “Your father also discovered a corporation registered under an address linked to your husband, which had been approaching developers on behalf of Bellamy House behind your back.”
The room seemed to spin. “The hotel developers?”
“One of them.”
Instantly, I recalled the glossy brochures Silas had laid across our dining table, boasting of a luxury riverside resort with astronomical figures written in gold. He had claimed developers were merely expressing interest; he never mentioned he might already be working alongside them.
Reaching deeper into the folder, Arthur pulled out an envelope. “Your father penned this three weeks before his death, instructing me to keep it sealed unless an emergency threatened the estate.”
My hands shook as Arthur unfolded a short note:
My darling Lenora,
If you are reading this, an event I dreaded has come to pass. Some will love you for who you are, while others will love the doors your name can unlock. Never confuse the two.
The estate is a profound responsibility, not just property. If anyone tries to strip it from you through fear or deception, remember you are not as isolated as you think. I have made preparations for a day you might need to defend your legacy.
Look beneath the oldest stone in the west garden.
Your loving father.
I read the lines twice before lifting my gaze to Arthur. “What lies beneath that stone?”
“I have no idea. Your father never divulged it.”
“Yet you knew of this letter’s existence?”
“I knew it was there, bound by strict instructions not to open it unless specific conditions were met.”
Turning my head toward the window, my mind drifted to the west garden. I remembered playing there as a child, ducking behind rosebushes while my father pretended not to spot me. An old stone bench rested beneath a cedar tree there, bordered by a low historical wall. I could picture the layout vividly, though I couldn’t fathom how anything buried there could rescue me now.
“Arthur, I need to know why my health is failing.”
He gazed down at his hands. “I am an attorney, not a physician. I cannot diagnose your condition, but I can ensure the proper authorities investigate it.”
“What do we do?”
“First, we secure your legal rights. Second, we notify your medical team that your husband holds no authority to make decisions on your behalf. Third, we pinpoint exactly what is happening to your body.” He paused, adding, “And Lenora, until we know more, consume nothing brought to you by your husband unless your doctors independently verify its safety.”
Nodding, a memory flashed in my mind—the paper cup, the brown liquid, the strange metallic tang. “A nurse tested a drink he brought yesterday and bagged it.”
Arthur reached for his phone instantly. “Do you recall her name?”
“No.”
“What did she look like?”
After I offered a thorough description, Arthur made two rapid calls—one to hospital administration to ensure the sample was preserved, and another to a trusted physician for an independent toxicology review.
He didn’t offer empty reassurances that everything would be fine; instead, he squeezed my hand and stated, “We will follow the evidence wherever it leads.”
It was the first genuine promise I had heard in days.
At half-past eleven, Silas returned, carrying a bouquet of white lilies and donning a charcoal business suit that made him look less like a visiting spouse and more like an executive attending a board gathering.
His smile faltered the instant he caught sight of Arthur. “Arthur. I wasn’t anticipating company.”
Rising from his chair, Arthur stated, “I am here with my client.”
Silas shot me a look. “Your client?”
“Indeed,” Arthur replied. “Lenora has asked me to represent her across all matters concerning her estate and personal legal affairs.”
My husband’s expression flickered—just for a fraction of a second, but enough for me to catch it. The warmth vanished entirely from his eyes.
“Lenora is profoundly ill. She doesn’t need the burden of legal complications.”
“Then you should have zero objections to her making independent choices free from pressure.”
Silas let out a soft, dry laugh. “This is absurd. I’m her husband.”
“And she is my client.”
For a tense moment, neither man budged. Then, Silas placed the flowers on the table. “Of course. Whatever keeps her comfortable.”
He leaned over the mattress to kiss my forehead, but I deliberately turned my face away, leaving his lips to brush empty pillowcase fabric. When he straightened up, his smile remained fixed, though his eyes stayed chillingly cold.
“Arthur, may I speak with my wife in private?”
“No,” I declared.
The single word caught all three of us off guard. It took every ounce of remaining energy to utter it, but I had spoken.
Silas stared down at me, bewildered. “What?”
“I have no desire to speak with you alone.”
For a second, I thought he might snap, but he quickly composed himself. “Of course, darling. You’re frightened; I understand.” He stepped closer. “We do need to address the estate eventually, though. You wouldn’t want strangers dictating our future.”
“Our future?” I whispered.
His smile tightened. “Naturally.”
Locking eyes with him, I said, “You told me you were simply waiting for me to die.”
Arthur went completely rigid. Silas didn’t move an inch before letting out a short, dismissive scoff.
“Lenora, your judgment is clouded. You misheard.”
“I heard every syllable.”
“You’re heavily medicated.”
“I heard you clearly.”
Turning toward the lawyer, Silas argued, “This precisely illustrates my concern. The doctors warned that her medication might impair her perception. She’s imagining things.”
Arthur’s voice remained even. “An independent evaluation should easily clear up any confusion.”
Meeting my gaze once more, Silas’s mask slipped entirely. The persona of the devoted husband evaporated, replaced by a cold strategist calculating how much disruption one dying woman could still cause. Straightening his jacket, he offered a parting remark:
“Get some rest, Lenora.”
He walked toward the exit, pausing at the threshold to add, “One final thing—the developers have sweetened their offer. We have until Friday to reply.”
I stared right at him. “I will never sell Bellamy House.”
His eyes narrowed. “You may not be given a choice.”
With that, he walked out, the door clicking firmly behind him.
Arthur immediately drew his phone from his pocket. “I’m petitioning the court for emergency protections over the estate, arranging a second medical opinion, and requesting a capacity assessment independent of anyone your husband selected.”
I closed my eyes. For the first time, Silas had walked out of a room without getting his way. It was a modest victory, but a victory nonetheless—and I intended to hold onto it.
Part 4
The following morning broke with the sound of my husband arguing loudly outside my door. Though I couldn’t catch every phrase, the irritation beneath his usual polished facade was unmistakable.
“This is ridiculous. I am her spouse. I have every right to know her status.”
A female staff member replied calmly, “Sir, your patient has requested strict privacy regarding her medical file. We must honor her wishes.”
“You don’t understand, she isn’t thinking rationally.”
Feigning sleep, I kept my eyes shut as the door clicked open. Silas stepped inside carrying a leather folder, looking thoroughly drained—not with the sorrow of a grieving partner, but with the frustration of someone whose business deal had hit a roadblock.
Pulling a chair close, he reached for my hand. “Lenora, we need a serious talk.”
Keeping completely still, I opened my eyes. “About what?”
“Arthur is filling your head with nonsense, turning your final days into a legal circus.”
“My final days?”
His expression faltered momentarily before he slipped back into a sympathetic smile. “You know what I mean.”
“No, Silas. I don’t believe I do.”
He laid the folder across my blanket. Inside rested several documents bearing my name.
“The developers have raised their bid. If we execute this agreement by Friday, the funds transfer immediately, and we can finally live the life we always dreamed of.”
Scanning the top page, my stomach tightened instantly. It was a proposed sales contract for the riverfront acreage, featuring an enormous payout. However, beneath the numbers, a detail caught my eye: the buying entity wasn’t the hotel firm that had previously visited us, but a private corporation named Westbridge Holdings.
I had never heard of it. “Who owns this enterprise?”
Silas drew the folder back just a fraction. “Business associates.”
“Which associates?”
“Lenora, I don’t have the bandwidth to run through every corporate detail right now.”
I held his gaze. “Then you shouldn’t anticipate my signature.”
His jaw clenched. The silence stretched between us before he quietly gathered his papers. “Fine. Rest. We’ll revisit this later.”
Standing up, he leaned down to press a cold kiss to my forehead and departed before I could reply. The moment the door latched shut, I hit the call button. I needed Arthur, and I needed to uncover who stood behind Westbridge Holdings—because for the first time, I suspected Silas wasn’t acting alone.
By midday, Arthur arrived alongside a property investigator carrying original estate files.
“Westbridge Holdings was incorporated a year and a half ago,” Arthur explained, laying out the documents. “Its directors include figures tied to the very development syndicate that approached your husband last year.”
“And Silas? Is his name listed?”
“Not as a director.”
I frowned. “Then how do we tie him to it?”
“Through financial trails, correspondence, and property negotiations, which we are currently investigating,” Arthur replied. “The crucial point is that this company has attempted to acquire the riverfront at forty percent below independent appraisal value.”
I stared at him in shock. Forty percent. My father had spent a lifetime defending that territory, yet Silas was ready to give it away at a massive discount, expecting me to rubber-stamp the deal blindly.
“What if I reject it?”
“Nothing can be sold simply because your husband wishes it. You hold the title, and illness alone does not strip away your legal authority.”
“Unless he tricks someone into declaring me incompetent.”
“Even then, strict legal protocols and concrete evidence are required. Your diagnosis doesn’t automatically erase your rights.”
Hearing that offered an immense wave of relief.
Arthur then reached into his briefcase. “I also spoke with the Bellamy House caretaker. He recalls your father instructing him to secure something within the west garden, beneath the old stone bench.”
“The oldest stone.”
“Yes.”
I looked out the window. “When can we go?”
“Your doctors approved a brief, supervised visit provided your stability holds. We’ll take every precaution.”
For the first time in days, a genuine smile touched my lips—not because a hidden item would magically fix everything, but because my father had left a trail for me to follow, and I was finally going to find out what it meant.
We reached Bellamy House the following afternoon via a medical transport vehicle, with Arthur trailing behind in his car carrying legal paperwork and equipment. The trip drained my remaining stamina, leaving me shivering beneath a blanket upon arrival, but as the iron gates swung open, a familiar warmth washed over me.
Home.
The towering cedar trees lined the driveway, ivy blanketed the stone facade, and the sprawling farmlands stretched out toward the river just as they had during my father’s life. I remembered running across those grounds as a child, ready to discover whatever secrets remained waiting for me.