THE NINETY-DAY RECKONING

I stayed confined to the downstairs guest room, intentionally pale, wearing loose clothing, and pretending to grow weaker with each passing week. Whenever Richard or Sienna entered the room to drop off a tray of cold food or check if I was still breathing, I slurred my words and let my hands shake violently.

They fell for it completely.

Every night, when Richard brought me the toxic herbal tea, I pretended to swallow it, holding the liquid in my mouth until he turned his back, then spitting it directly into a hidden plastic flask tucked inside my mattress. Every three days, my trusted personal driver—a loyal man named Arthur who had worked for my late father for thirty years—secretly smuggled the flask out of the estate and delivered it to a private toxicology lab in downtown Los Angeles.

On day forty-five, Arthur met me secretly in the estate’s wine cellar while Richard and Sienna were out attending an elite charity gala using my corporate sponsorship.

Arthur handed me a thick leather binder.

“The lab results are conclusive, Miss Victoria,” Arthur reported quietly, his eyes burning with outrage. “The tea contains concentrated doses of Thallium—a tasteless, odorless heavy metal that causes severe nerve inflammation, muscle weakness, and organ stress. It mimics terminal illness perfectly.”

“And the financial audit?” I asked, flipping through the binder.

Arthur grins grimly. “Your primary corporate attorney, Samuel Sterling, has completed the quiet acquisition. Over the last two months, while Richard thought you were too incapacitated to manage your affairs, we executed the built-in clawback clauses in your father's original trust agreement.”

Arthur pointed to a series of legal deeds.

“Because Richard used corporate funds from Sterling Enterprises to purchase assets for his mistress—including a five-million-dollar condo in Miami—he breached the fiduciary loyalty clause of your marriage contract. Samuel has successfully revoked Richard’s voting shares, transferred the deeds to all seven subsidiary companies directly into your private LLC, and frozen every joint bank account effective on the ninetieth day.”

I closed the binder, running my fingers over the smooth leather.

Richard believed he was counting down the days until my death. He had no idea he was actually counting down the days until his absolute annihilation.

“How is the mistress holding up?” I asked smoothly.

“Sienna is spending money like water,” Arthur snorted in contempt. “She’s ordered two million dollars worth of custom Italian furniture for the mansion, charged directly to your credit lines. She’s throwing a massive 'Estate Victory Party' here on day ninety—inviting all of Richard’s board members and high-society friends to celebrate his 'new chapter.'”