Chapter 8 - Footsteps on the Hardwood
Sabina walked briskly toward the east wing playroom where Lorelai and Gemma were peacefully coloring pictures of their father.
Sabina kicked the playroom door open with a loud BANG, startling the two young girls so violently that Gemma spilled her cup of water across her drawing.
“Get up! Both of you, out in the foyer now!” Sabina barked, grabbing Lorelai roughly by the arm.
“Ow! Stop it, you’re hurting me!” Lorelai cried, trying to pull away from Sabina’s iron grip.
Rosamund appeared in the hallway within seconds, holding a laundry basket. The moment she saw Sabina manhandling the child, Rosamund dropped the basket and rushed forward, placing herself directly between Sabina and Lorelai.
“Take your hands off that child right now!” Rosamund shouted, her gentle demeanor completely disappearing, replaced by the fierce, unyielding fury of a lioness protecting her cubs.
Sabina sneered, releasing Lorelai’s arm and taking a step back. “Make the most of your final moments of freedom, Kelly. The police are already rolling through the front gates. In five minutes, you’ll be in the back of a squad car for armed robbery and endangering minors.”
“You planted the necklace in my room, didn't you?” Rosamund said, her voice steady and fearless as she pulled both girls behind her back. “Just like Julian planted the securities in Clara’s car six years ago in Chicago.”
Sabina’s eyes widened slightly in shock, but she quickly masked it with a mocking laugh. “So you finally admit who you are, little sister? You thought you could hide under an apron and stop us? Eleanor was weak, Clara was an idiot, and you are nothing more than a bug I’m about to crush under my heel.”
From the shadows of the grand foyer gallery above, the heavy double doors clicked open.
Footsteps began to echo across the marble floor. Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.
Sabina froze, turning toward the grand staircase. “Who’s there? Marcus?”
Out of the darkness of the mezzanine, Chadworth Prescott stepped into the warm glow of the chandelier. He was dressed in his sharp charcoal suit, his coat unbuttoned, his expression radiating pure, unadulterated judgment.
Sabina’s breath caught in her throat. The color drained from her face until she looked like a ghost.
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“C-Chadworth?” she stammered, her voice trembling. “You... your flight... you’re in Canada...”
“There was no Canada, Sabina,” Chadworth said, descending the marble staircase with cold, terrifying precision. “There was only a father who finally opened his eyes.”
