Chapter 224
Chapter 224:
Eleanor appeared at the top of the grand staircase. She didn’t look frightened. She looked annoyed, as if Preston were a stain on her carpet that the help had failed to scrub out.
“Security,” Eleanor snapped, her voice dripping with disdain. “Remove this hysterical man. He’s trespassing.”
Preston looked up. If looks could kill, Eleanor would have been ash on the stairs.
“Hysterical?” Preston laughed, a broken, jagged sound. “You poisoned her mind, Eleanor! You and that viper daughter of yours! Monica didn’t know any better. She trusted you!”
He lunged toward the stairs. The guards grabbed him, wrestling him back.
“She texted her!” Preston screamed, fighting against the arms holding him. “Vivian texted her to stop the medicine! I saw the logs! You murdered my boy!”
“Lies,” Eleanor hissed, descending one step. “Vivian was trying to help. She’s a victim here. Your wife is a lunatic who stabbed her.”
“Because she realized what you made her do!”
Aurora took a step forward, stepping out of the shadows of the library.
Preston stopped struggling when he saw her. He breathed heavily, his chest heaving. “You,” he panted, pointing a trembling finger at her. “You were there. At the store. You tried to tell her.”
Eleanor’s eyes snapped to Aurora. A malicious glint flickered in them. She saw an opening.
“Yes,” Eleanor said loudly. “She was there. Aurora refused to help. She saw the boy was sick and walked away. If anyone is negligent, it’s her.”
The audacity took Aurora’s breath away for a second. It was a masterclass in deflection.
Aurora didn’t yell. She didn’t defend herself. She just lifted her teacup to her lips and took a sip of the bitter, cold liquid. She held Eleanor’s gaze over the rim.
“I called 911,” Aurora said calmly. Her voice wasn’t loud, but in the sudden silence of the hall, it carried like a gunshot. “The dispatch logs are time-stamped. 2:14 PM. Three hours before he died.”
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Eleanor opened her mouth to spin another lie, but a sharp, rhythmic sound cut her off.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound of a cane striking marble.
Matriarch Beatrice Kensington emerged from the hallway leading to the East Wing. She was in her wheelchair, but she looked taller than anyone standing. Her face was gray, carved from granite and grief.
“Let him go,” the Matriarch commanded.
The guards released Preston immediately. He slumped, covering his face with his hands, sobbing.
“Eleanor,” the Matriarch said. Her voice was devoid of question, filled only with judgment.
“Mother, please,” Eleanor stammered, her composure cracking. “Vivian was just sharing wellness tips. She’s not a doctor. She can’t be held responsible for Monica’s stupidity.”
“The evidence has already been presented, Eleanor,” the Matriarch cut her off, her tone freezing the air in the room. “We saw the papers scattered on the floor. We heard the timestamps read aloud by the police. There is no ambiguity here.”
“The texts,” Aurora interjected, reinforcing the verdict. “They weren’t suggestions, Eleanor. They were instructions. ‘Do not go to the hospital.’ ‘The blue lips are good.’ That is practicing medicine without a license. That is involuntary manslaughter.”