Chapter 117 The Perfect Mask

Chapter 117 The Perfect Mask
CHAPTER 117

(The Perfect Mask)

​FLASHBACK

I entered the upper gallery, the sound of the party downstairs a muffled, distant thrumming.

Margaret was standing by the railing, looking down at the grand hall, her silhouette rigid with insane rage as she muttered incoherently to herself.

I shut the heavy door behind me, the sound a derisive, final punctuation mark.

“Are you considering a dramatic exit, Margaret?” I asked, my voice calm, almost conversational.

“If you are, don't. I plan to do that myself.”

“You daughter of—”

“Shut up.” I cut her off instantly, sharply.

“Enough with that incessant, nonsensical babbling. You're starting to annoy me!”

She actually recoiled, a flicker of surprise—or perhaps fear, painting her features.

The surprise that I, the meek one, had found my voice, or perhaps the madness in hers recognized the clarity in mine.

“You have really lost your mind, haven't you? You keep saying all that nonsense. Just shut up!”

I slowly walked closer, relishing the distance closing between us.

“The almighty Margaret Lancaster,” I continued, a mocking, dry laughter escaping my lips as my shoulders shook with feigned amusement.

“The respected socialite and fashion icon, now reduced to a raving lunatic? How the mighty have fallen.”

I stopped a foot away. “You're no different from all those psychiatric patients in the psych ward,”

Margaret's expression hardened. The rage returned, pure and unadulterated, and she charged at me.

Before she could land a blow, I caught her hand easily, my strength amplified by years of quiet resentment.

I backed her up, my grip like iron.

“Don't you dare.” The warning was quiet, but it was absolute.

“Tonight will be the very last time I'll ever let you hurt me again.”

I was itching to slap her, a satisfying crack across her cheek, but I had a much better, more humiliating plan in mind.

I gripped tightly onto her wrist, the bone protesting beneath my glove.

A hiss of pure pain escaped her beautiful, hateful mouth.

“Let go of my hand, you cursed child!”

“Is that so? I'm cursed?” I asked through gritted teeth, pushing the hatred back at her.

“Who between the both of us is cursed, Margaret? Isn't that you?” I squeezed harder.

A painful, high-pitched scream escaped her lips. She hunched over, trying to pull away.

“Leave me!”

“Not until you kneel.”

Her expression was, truly, priceless.

A mixture of absolute horror and defiant fury.

The great Margaret Lancaster, asked to kneel before the bastard daughter.

“I promised myself that I would bring you to your knees before me, and I plan to make good on that promise. Kneel.”

Her face remained defiant.

“It seems you didn't understand me the first time. I said. Kneel.”

I squeezed harder, twisting her wrist with a sudden, vicious motion, forcing her down, down, down, until her knees hit the polished wood floor.

A defeated, painful yelp escaped her lips. She was broken.

“Wasn't that so much easier?” I whispered, savoring the moment of her forced subjugation.

I let go of her wrist. She scrambled to her feet, rubbing the raw skin, her eyes darting toward the door.

“You've been hounding me for months,” I said, and the simple statement, uttered in a calm voice, stopped her cold.

“Shouting to anyone who cared to listen that I killed your daughter. Well, don't you want to know what really happened?”

Margaret stopped in her tracks.

Slowly, tentatively, she turned around to face me, her eyes wide with a manic mix of curiosity and fear.

“Now is the time for truths, Margaret. So, you were right.”

I looked her dead in the eye, delivering the line I had rehearsed in my head a thousand times.

“I killed Lauren.”

The shocked gasp that slipped past her lips was gratifying.

Her eyes widened, focusing on me with a sudden, horrifying clarity that must have cut through the chemical haze of the Lacuna.

“I cut her wrists open so deep that the wounds looked exactly like a smile.”

She charges at me one last time, a desperate animal lunging.

I caught her, backing her against the heavy iron railing of the upper gallery.

She struggled in my grip, a useless, flailing mass of expensive fabric and hysteria.

“You murderer! Die!” She shrieked.

I grinned broadly, a wolf's smile.

“Yes! I murdered your daughter, and it felt good. Do you want to know what I said to Lauren after I killed her?”

I came closer, pressing her against the cold railing.

I whispered the line into her ear, a breathy, dangerous confession.

“I told her: I'd look much better in her wedding dress.”

She spat in my face. The final, disgusting act of defiance.

“Curse you! Curse you, Anna! You'll die miserably and alone!”

Anger surged, a hot, uncontrollable wave.

I wiped her saliva from my face with my gloved hand, the last remnant of my civilized facade dissolving.

“No, Margaret. It'll be you who'll die miserably and alone. Burn in hell.”

With that final word, I put all my weight and purpose into one decisive push.

She went over the railing instantly, her scream swallowed immediately by the loud, relentless music downstairs.

I heard the loud crash below, followed by a high-pitched, brief, cut-off shriek—the satisfying sound of her body hitting the marble floor or perhaps the grand piano.

It was irrelevant.

“Sleep tight, Margaret.”

I swiftly left the upper gallery, walking with deliberate calm down the main staircase, turning towards the water fountain area as if nothing had happened.
​FLASHBACK ENDS

I killed Margaret too.

There was no question of leaving her alive.

It was payback for all those years—the abusive, hateful words, the beatings, the maltreatment like a scullery maid, the murder of my mother.

The darn list goes on.

She deserved every moment of her slow, agonizing mental decline and the final, humiliating plunge.

I truly hope she is burning brightly in the eternal fires of hell.

Everyone who had been nasty and mean to me, who had participated in my degradation, was dealt with.

One by one.

Helena herself can attest to that.

I genuinely didn't understand why she had made it her life's mission to frustrate me and make my life a living hell.

I was more than fine being friends with Olivia, Camille, Emilia, Oliver and Brandon.

I didn't need her, but she still couldn't let me be.

I didn't want any trouble, I just wanted to be with William.

I even tried to ignore her and mind my business. She refused to allow it.

So, I released her sextape.

Johannah was the one who found the tape while cleaning up Lauren's bedroom shortly after her death.

She gave it to me that very first day I returned to the Lancaster mansion.

I think Lauren was keeping it separate for a reason—blackmail, perhaps.

The surprising thing is that I didn't know Helena would go that far, she would be weak enough to try and kill herself over a little public embarrassment.

I genuinely thought she was strong, a diamond-hard bitch.

I guess I was wrong.

Another victory, delivered unexpectedly.

As for Daniel. He was a terrifying anomaly.

I never saw him coming, never planned for him, and never imagined I'd encounter someone like him.

Just like Julia, I knew nothing about her existence until recently.

But Daniel… He truly terrified me.

Still terrifies me, if I'm being honest.

I wasn't faking that. Any of it.

I had never learned how to handle someone so unhinged, so completely outside the boundaries of polite, transactional cruelty I was used to.

I thought people like him only existed in B-grade movies.

Both him and his father, Richard, were the only true, organic fear factors inside the entire Fairchild mansion.

There was just something unsettling about Daniel from the first day I saw him.

I suspected he was trouble and tried to avoid him.
But Daniel was relentless, his deranged advances too much.

I felt really helpless, and weak in his presence, a sensation I loathed.

That's why I'm rather relieved he's comatose. He's given me breathing space.

He'll stop hurting Camille and Grace.

Although sometimes I wish he'll just die and never wake up.

He deserves to die.

Both him and Richard.

Then there was Clara.

That little round, evil girl.

She took one look at me and hated me instantly.

A wonderful mirror, actually. I gave it right back to her.

I intentionally mentioned her to William that day. I knew he would deal with her.

She had been a thorn in my side for too long, eavesdropping on my conversation with Camille during Margaret's funeral, as Johannah had reported.

I simply wanted her removed.

I never anticipated the outcome. I never planned for that.

But boom. He killed her. And I'm glad he did. She deserved it.

That's just about the tally sheet.

None of this, this grand, glorious reality could have worked so smoothly, so flawlessly, without Johannah's help.

Johannah, you see, had an axe to grind that was far sharper than mine.

You all should be familiar with that saying:

The enemy of my enemy… is my friend.
That perfectly sums up my strategic relationship with Johannah, although we are genuine longtime friends.

It wasn't hard to get her to help me with everything, because stepmother dearest gave her a lifetime of reasons to turn on her.
First off, Margaret was an all-round nasty employer.

She made Johannah's life miserable, maltreated her and her mother, and then accused her mother, Miss Silvia, of theft.

She didn't just fire her, she had her thrown in jail for weeks.

In all honesty, Miss Silvia stole nothing.

Margaret had misplaced her diamond earrings and immediately assumed Miss Silvia was the culprit because she had asked her for a loan for Johannah's little sister's medication.

The poor girl had type one diabetes and desperately needed her insulin.

Classic Margaret refused the loan. And when she finally found the earring—lodged in the lining of a forgotten coat pocket—she kept her mouth shut and allowed Miss Silvia to spend more days in prison.

The cruelty of it was breathtaking.

That cemented Johannah's hatred for Margaret.

Then, the final, unforgivable sin.

After Miss Silvia was finally released from prison, she went home and found that Daisy's condition had worsened.

She needed her insulin shot urgently. Miss Silvia called Johannah, who was luckily expecting her salary.

Margaret was out of town, leaving the worker's money with Lauren.

Johannah begged Lauren to release her salary, emphasizing the emergency nature of the medication.

But Lauren, that callous, self-absorbed wretch, harshly told her to wait until she returned from a party with her friends and left.

Lauren returned the afternoon the next day. She took a bath, ate, had a nice nap, woke up, and only then, in the evening, did she finally release the money to Johannah.

By the time Johannah arrived at her house, racing against time, it was already too late. Daisy had died.

I wasn't around at the time, Margaret had dragged me along with her, I would have helped her with the money.

My father was away on a business trip. Johannah told me about how she had frantically gone to so many people for help, but nobody could help her with the money.

She was utterly devastated.

Lauren, through nothing but selfish indifference, had caused the death of an innocent child.

Johannah was out for her blood, and she never once hesitated in rendering her help and support when I needed it.

Lauren ruined her life, destroyed Daisy's life, and Miss Silvia's life—she was never the same after Daisy's death.

A life so young and pure extinguished because of Lauren's callousness and insensitivity.

She truly deserved to die. She was awful to everyone around her, even animals weren't safe around her.

So, yes. If I were being given an award for removing two unscrupulous individuals from the face of the earth, I would proudly accept it, with a smile that William would believe was simply contentment.

A flash of lightning tore across the sky, dragging my focus from the rain and the comfortable, distant nature of the past, right back to the balcony.

I felt William's strong arms encircle my waist from behind, his sudden presence warm and grounding.

I smiled, placing my hand on top of his. “You're awake.”

“Mhmm,” he hummed, his chin resting lightly on my shoulder.

“Are you okay?” He asked, his voice low with concern, gently rubbing my belly.

His hand was a fortress around the precious cargo.

I turned in his arms to face him, wrapping my hands around his neck.

“I'm okay. We're both okay.”

“Are you sure?”

He studied my face, the shadows under his eyes betraying his constant vigilance.

“If you're feeling any pain or restlessness, we should go see a doctor right now.”

I laughed, a soft, reassuring sound that was entirely genuine.

I loved his worry.

“I'm fine, Liam. The baby's fine. There's no need to worry, okay?”

He exhaled, the sound a low rush of tension being released.

“I just don't want a repeat of last time. It was devastating.”

“It won't,” I promised, leaning in to connect my forehead with his.

The weight of his anxiety was almost endearing.

“Trust me. I love you, William.”

“I love you more,”

He flashed me a boyish, relieved grin, and I laid my head on his chest, embracing him as he wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight in the fierce, protective grip I had fought so hard to secure.

In the end, Lauren, you were right. To you I was nothing.

But nothing—that overlooked, dismissed, insignificant girl, took back everything.

Your dress, your husband, your mother, your life, and my family legacy.

He believed I was a victim. He believed I was his salvation…

But he would never know.