Chapter 5 - The Hidden Safe and the Missing Heirloom
By two o'clock in the afternoon, the mansion was shrouded in gray storm clouds, rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows of the living room.
On Monitor 6, Sabina emerged from the master suite wearing black leather driving gloves. She carried a small velvet pouch in her hand. She checked the hallway left and right before sliding into Chadworth’s private dressing room.
Chadworth and Marcus watched every second in crisp 4K resolution.
Sabina moved behind a life-sized oil portrait of the Prescott family estate. She entered the digital PIN on the recessed biometric wall safe—a combination she had clearly obtained from Julian Croft’s administrative override code. The heavy steel door clicked open silently.
From the safe, Sabina bypassed stacks of bearer bonds and emergency cash bundles. She reached directly for an antique mahogany presentation box containing the Prescott Star: a seventy-two-carat blue diamond necklace that had belonged to Chadworth’s grandmother, valued at over twelve million dollars.
She opened the box, looked at the dazzling blue gemstone with an expression of pure, unadulterated greed, and slipped the necklace into her velvet pouch. Then, she took a cheap, cubic-zirconia replica from her coat pocket and placed it inside the mahogany box, shutting the safe door securely.
“She’s not just planting evidence,” Marcus observed sharply. “She’s stealing the authentic piece and swapping it with a fake. If Rosamund was searched, they’d find the real diamond in her possession, while Sabina could later claim Rosamund must have stolen it before the fake was discovered.”
Sabina slipped out of the master suite and descended the service stairs toward the staff quarters in the basement.
The staff quarters consisted of a modest, comfortable suite where Rosamund stayed during her five-day workweeks. Sabina quietly pushed open the door to Rosamund’s room. She walked directly to the wooden wardrobe, lifted a stack of freshly laundered sweaters, and shoved the velvet pouch containing the twelve-million-dollar heirloom deep into the lining of Rosamund’s winter coat.
Sabina stood back, a triumphant, psychotic smirk stretching across her face.
“Checkmate, you little peasant,” Sabina whispered aloud to the empty room.
Down in the security bunker, Chadworth stood completely still. His face was a mask of absolute, terrifying calm—the cold, calculating composure that had made him the most ruthless corporate negotiator on Wall Street.
“Marcus,” Chadworth said, his voice dropping an octave.
“Yes, Mr. Prescott?”
“Is the local district attorney’s special operations unit still on our private retainer?”
“State Prosecutor Harrison is on my direct speed dial, sir. He owes you his entire judicial appointment.”
“Call Harrison. Tell him to assemble a tactical team, two forensic fraud investigators, and an arrest warrant for grand larceny, criminal conspiracy, and attempted homicide. But tell them to stage two miles down the road at the country club. Nobody moves until I give the word.”
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“And what about you, sir?” Marcus asked.
Chadworth buttoned his suit jacket, his dark eyes burning with an unholy fire. “I’m going to let my loving fiancée think her plan worked perfectly. I want her to dig her grave so deep that even the finest lawyers in the country won't be able to find daylight.”
