Chapter 218
Chapter 218:
Preston tried to talk to her. “Monica, the police called. We need a lawyer for the negligence charges.”
“I don’t need a lawyer,” Monica muttered, clutching her purse. “I need justice.”
Aurora attended the wake from a distance. She sat in her black SUV across the street, watching through tinted windows.
She saw Monica leave. She saw the look on Monica’s face. It was a mask of death.
Aurora picked up her phone. She texted Elias.
Something bad is going to happen.
Elias replied instantly.
Stay close to me.
Night fell. Monica sat in Noah’s empty room. The bed was still unmade, the imprint of his small body still visible.
She sat on the floor with her phone. She opened the chat history with Vivian.
Trust nature.
Western medicine is a scam.
The symptoms mean it’s working.
Don’t let them interrupt the process.
Every message was a nail in a coffin. Not Noah’s coffin. Vivian’s.
Monica walked to the printer in the home office. She connected her phone. She hit print.
Whirrr. Click.
Page after page of damning evidence slid out.
She stacked the papers neatly. She put them in her purse, right next to the knife.
She looked at Noah’s photo on the desk.
“Mama will fix it,” she whispered. “Mama will make the bad lady pay.”
The sun rose on the day of the recital. It was a bright, cruel morning.
Monica went to her closet. She pushed aside the black mourning clothes. She pulled out a dress.
It was red. Bright, screaming crimson. The color of blood. The color of rage.
She put it on.
Kensington Manor was decorated in cream and gold for the “Charity Arts Showcase.” It was an event designed to show off Vivian’s “talents” and secure her place as the family’s cultural icon.
Vivian was the star. She wore a white, angelic gown that made her look like a virginal saint.
Eleanor Kensington circulated the room, praising her daughter. “Vivian is so resilient. Even after the tragedy with her friend’s son, she insists on playing.”
Eleanor moved with a nervous energy. She glanced occasionally toward the upper balcony, where Matriarch Beatrice Kensington sat in a wheelchair, draped in a heavy shawl. The Matriarch wasn’t speaking to anyone; she was simply watching, her gaze heavy and unreadable. Eleanor felt a shiver every time she looked up. The old woman had been strangely quiet, allowing this party but refusing to fund it. Eleanor assumed it was grief, unaware that she was a rat scuttling through a trap that had already snapped shut.
Sebastian attended, looking for Aurora. He hadn’t seen her since the gala. He scanned the room, his expression dark.
.