Chapter 48 48

Chapter 48 48
IRIS QUINN

We finished shopping and headed out into the late afternoon light. The boutique staff had wrapped the dress carefully in tissue paper and placed it in an elegant bag with rope handles.

“Do you already have what you’re wearing?” I asked as we crunched across the pavement toward the car.

“Yes.”

“That was fast.”

“I don’t need to go overboard.” He glanced at me, his eyes hooded. “You’re already my accessory.”

I made a small sound in my throat, somewhere between a scoff and a huh.

The driver appeared, pulling the door open. I handed him the bag and climbed in. Caesar followed, the door shutting with a heavy thud that sealed out the city.

“Take me to my mother’s house,” I told the driver.He nodded.

“I meant to ask,” Caesar said, not looking at me. “What did Aaron mean? About the 'tension' at the estate yesterday?”

I kept my gaze fixed on the blurring glass. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

He didn't push, but I could feel him watching me, more curious than before. I pulled out my phone and texted Naomi quickly.

Call the private investigator. Tell him to come to the house. I'm on my way.

\---

The Quinn estate felt different as the gates groaned open. The grandeur was still there, but the edges were fraying. The hedges were overgrown, wild limbs reaching out over the driveway. I stepped out of the car, adjusting my bag.

“I'll get the dress when you come home from work,” I said through the open window.

Caesar nodded. “Send my regards to your mother.”

I watched the glass roll up, reflecting my own tired face back at me before the car pulled away. I turned and walked toward the front door.

Naomi was waiting just inside the foyer. She smiled, but the warmth didn't reach her eyes, shadowing the same exhaustion I felt.

“Iris.”

I hugged her briefly, then stepped back and looked past her toward the windows. “Has the gardener been let go?”

Naomi sighed, a small, defeated sound. “We had to. To save what’s left. The frozen assets...”

“Right.” The word tasted like ash. “Did you reach out to the investigator?”

“Yes. He should be here soon.”

“Is my mother upstairs?” I asked, walking further inside, the silence of the house pressing down on me.

“Yes. She's sleeping.”

“Good. Let her rest.”

I walked into the living room and sat on the couch. Naomi followed, standing tentatively by the armrest.

“Where's the envelope I told you to take from my suitcase?” I asked.

“Safe. You have nothing to worry about.”

I nodded, my hands folded tightly in my lap. “Sit, Naomi.”

She hesitated, then sat beside me.

I turned slightly to face her. “If you were in my position—if you had something that could prove Victor set my father up to own his company—what would you do?”

Naomi was quiet for a long time, her hands perfectly still in her lap. “I’d want to burn him down,” she said eventually. “I'd want the world to see him for the monster he is.”

“But?”

She looked at me seriously. “But Victor Laurent is a strategist, Iris. He can turn anything in his favor in the blink of an eye. If you come at him with that contract and he finds a way to discredit it, or discredit you, you'll lose everything. And you won't get a second chance.”

I stared at her. “So what are you saying?”

“I'm saying be smart. Don't go to war unless you know you can win.” She paused. “And right now, I'm not sure you can.”

Her words settled over me. “So I just... sit on it?” I asked. “Do nothing?”

“No. You prepare and make sure that when you use it, it's airtight. Because if you miss, Victor will bury you.” She reached over and squeezed my hand. “And I don't want to lose you too.”

I squeezed back, then let go. “Okay,” I said quietly. “Okay.”

We sat in silence for a moment until the doorbell rang.

Naomi stood. “That's probably him.”

“Let him in.”

I stayed on the couch, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The private investigator entered the living room with Naomi leading the way.

He was unremarkable, graying at the temples, wearing a cheap suit that suggested he was just doing his job while he dismantled our lives.

“Mrs. Laurent,” he said, extending a hand I refused to touch. “I'm Detective Morris,” he continued.

“Why are you here?”

“I'm here to verify Margaret Quinn's involvement in the ongoing fraud investigation.” He lowered himself to sit, but paused. “Can I sit?”

I said nothing but he sat anyway, pulling a worn notepad from his briefcase. Naomi remained standing beside me, her arms crossed.

“Involvement?” I repeated.

“Yes.” He flipped open the notepad. “We've given your family time to grieve, but Mrs. Quinn needs to make an appearance at the station. There are questions that need answering.”

My stomach turned. “The station? My father collapsed in that station. You think I’m letting her walk into the same cage that killed him?”

Morris didn't blink. “Standard procedure, Mrs. Laurent. We can do this voluntarily, or we can issue a formal summons for Margaret Quinn, accomplice.”

“That’s a lie. This is Victor Laurent's handiwork.”

Morris raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Serious accusations. Do you have proof?”

I opened my mouth to scream about the contract in my safe—the only proof I had that Victor had planned the entire collapse. Then I remembered Naomi’s warning: If you miss, he’ll bury you.

I closed my mouth.

“I thought not.” Morris leaned forward slightly. “Now, I need to speak with Margaret Quinn. Is she available?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Laurent—”

“She's grieving. She's not well. And I'm not letting you interrogate her.”

“I'm not asking for your permission.” His voice hardened. “This is a criminal investigation. If Mrs. Quinn refuses to cooperate, there will be consequences.”

“What consequences?” I stood. “Are you going to arrest a widow for mourning her husband?”

“If necessary.”

Naomi stepped forward. “You need to leave.”

Morris didn't move. He just looked at me. “I suggest you convince your mother to come in voluntarily. It'll be easier for everyone.”

“Get out,” I said.

“Mrs. Laurent—”

“What's going on?”

We all turned.

My mother was standing at the top of the stairs, one hand gripping the railing. She looked like a ghost—pale, hollow-eyed, wearing a robe that hung loosely on her frame. Her hair was uncombed, her face bare of makeup.

Morris stood immediately. “Mrs. Quinn. I'm Detective Morris. I'm here to ask you some questions about your late husband's fraud case.”

She descended the stairs slowly, her movements unsteady. “Fraud case,” she repeated flatly.

“Yes, ma'am. New materials suggest you may have been an accomplice. It would be best if you came to the station for a proper investigation.”

She reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped. “An accomplice.”

“That's correct.”

She let out a bitter laugher that set my teeth on edge. “My husband was not a fraud. The evidence was planted by Victor Laurent. The man who is ruining my family.”

“If you have proof—”

“Proof?” She screamed the word, stepping into Morris’s space. “My husband is dead. My daughter is sleeping in the house of the man who killed him. And you’re standing in my living room accusing me of a crime?”

“I’m investigating.”

“Get out,” she hissed. “Get out of my house!”

“Mom—” I stepped forward, reaching for her.

She whirled on me, her eyes wild and bloodshot. “You too. Get out. And don't come back until you've cut those Laurent leeches out of our veins.”

I froze. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Mom, I'm trying to help—”

“Are you?” She stepped closer, her voice shaking. “Because from where I'm standing, you're living in their house. Wearing their name. Playing their game.”

“I didn't have a choice—”

“We always have a choice, Iris!” She was shouting now. “I pushed for this marriage because I thought it would save us. I thought it would protect the company. But what did it cost?” She moved her hair away from face. “I lost Richard. I'm losing the company. And now I'm losing you too.”

“You're not losing me.”

“Then what are you doing?” She grabbed my shoulders, her fingers digging in. “Don’t tell me you now think you’re one of them because you're wearing their name. What are you doing to make them pay, Iris? What are you doing to teach them a lesson?”

I looked at her, and for the first time, I had no move to make. “I'm... Victor doesn't trust Caesar. I'm going to use that.” I leaned in and whispered, “I’ll turn them against each other.”

She stared at me, searching my face for the daughter she used to know. Then she let go, her hands dropping to her sides.

“Naomi,” she said quietly. “Get me a glass of wine.”

Naomi hesitated before disappearing. My mother turned her back on me. “Come back when you’ve done some damage.”

“Mom—”

“Leave, Iris.”

I stood there, paralyzed. Morris picked up his briefcase, watching the wreckage of our family with detachment.

“I'll be in touch about the interview,” he said to her back. He turned to me at the door. “Convince her to cooperate. It’ll be easier.”

I silently watched him leave, the door clicking shut. Behind me, the soft clink of glass signaled the wine's arrival. I realized then, with a sick certainty, that I wasn't just losing my company or my father’s reputation.

I was losing my mother. And the only way to get her back was to become the monster she wanted me to be.