“Hold on a little longer,” I murmured. “I’m almost ready.”
She blinked, confused. I let the mask fall back into place.
That night, snow began to fall—heavy, relentless. A storm that would bury everything.
As I left the estate, I checked the trash bins. Inside, hidden among packaging, I found bloodstained paper towels.
I looked back at the mansion. Somewhere inside, a muffled scream echoed.
The storm had arrived.
And so had I.
Later, in my small cottage, the wind howled outside, rattling the windows. Inside, I sat in the dark, lit only by the glow of a secure laptop. I wasn’t browsing recipes—I was tracking offshore accounts tied to the Thornes.
At 12:42 AM, my phone rang.
I answered immediately.
“Martha,” Beatrice’s voice hissed. “Come get your daughter. She’s made a mess of the West Wing.”
My stomach turned cold.
“Is she okay?” I asked.
“I don’t care,” Beatrice snapped. “Julian dropped her at the bus station. If you don’t pick her up, that’s your problem.”
The line went dead.
I didn’t hesitate.
The roads were nearly impossible—ice, wind, darkness—but I drove anyway. I had survived worse than a blizzard.
I found Lily at the bus station, slumped against a vending machine, barely conscious, her body trembling in the cold.
“Mom…” she whispered. “He pushed me…”
Rage burned through me, but I stayed steady. A security guard approached, confused.
“Call 911,” I ordered, my voice sharp enough to stop him in place.
He obeyed instantly.
As I wrapped Lily in a thermal blanket, a piece of paper slipped from her pocket—a ledger page. Evidence.
She had risked everything.
I leaned close to her.
“They think I’m just your mother,” I whispered. “They forgot who I really am.”
Six days later, she was alive. Barely, but alive.