Chapter 6 - The Poison of Patricia
Before Ethan could reach the foyer to grab his car keys, the heavy double front doors swung open with a soft chime, and Patricia Hale glided into the foyer as if she already owned the deed to the property. She wore an impeccably tailored Chanel houndstooth dress, matching designer heels, and an expression of confident triumph. She had arrived precisely at the hour Ethan was scheduled to be airborne over Arkansas, fully expecting to find Clara cornered, humiliated, and stripped of her uniform by the estate manager. "Ethan, darling!" Patricia cooed, stepping across the marble floor and reaching out to touch his lapel with manicured fingers. "I thought your flight to O'Hare wasn't until noon. Did your board meeting get postponed, or did you finally listen to reason and decide to handle our little domestic pest yourself?" Ethan didn't flinch away, but the cold, dead look in his slate-gray eyes made Patricia’s hand drop mid-air. The suffocating silence stretched between them, thick and sharp enough to draw blood. "Ethan?" she faltered, her polished composure slipping for a fraction of a second. "What's wrong with you? You look like you've seen a ghost." "No, Patricia," Ethan said, his voice dropping into an octave so chillingly quiet that it echoed off the soaring ceilings. "I didn't see a ghost. I saw reality." Patricia forced a nervous, brittle laugh, attempting to regain her footing. "Oh, stop being so dramatic. Did the maid give you some sob story? I told you, people from her background know exactly how to twist a bleeding-heart widower around their finger. Did you fire her yet, or do I need to call the agency myself?" "Fire her?" Ethan repeated, taking a slow, deliberate step toward her until she was forced to lean back against the marble pillar. "Fire the only person in this entire twenty-thousand-square-foot prison who actually knows what color my daughters' favorite cereal bowls are? Fire the woman who sits on the hardwood floor with them when it storms while I'm out chasing corporate acquisitions to impress women like you?" Patricia’s face drained of color, her aristocratic features twisting into sudden, ugly panic. "Ethan, you're not making any sense! You're letting your emotional vulnerability cloud your judgment! That woman is a manipulative peasant who—" "Enough!" Ethan roared, the sound echoing through the mansion with the force of a gunshot, causing footsteps to pause upstairs. "Get out of my house, Patricia. Clean out your things from the guest suite, leave your spare gate keys on this console, and if you ever attempt to contact me, my daughters, or anyone working under my roof ever again, I will personally ensure you never sit on another charity board or enter polite society in the state of Texas as long as you live."
