Chapter 120: Whispers Of Betrayal
Martha balanced a breakfast tray, its contents clinking softly as she climbed the mansion’s dim staircase. The guard at Sharon’s door, Caleb, sneered and snatched an apple, biting into it with a crunch. His bruised jaw—Sharon’s handiwork from her failed escape—twitched with spite. “That’s not for you,” Martha snapped, her voice sharp despite her fear.
Caleb chewed slowly, eyes cold. “Why bother fattening her up? Boss’ll kill her eventually. You know it.”
“Stop your nonsense,” Martha said, gripping the tray tighter. “He’s not killing her. If you’ve got nothing useful to say, get lost.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Caleb called, sauntering off, apple in hand.
“Crazy fool,” Martha muttered, unlocking Sharon’s door. Inside, Sharon paced, her bare feet whispering on the floorboards, worry etched into her face. The room smelled of stale air and despair, a single bulb casting harsh shadows.
“Morning, dear,” Martha said, forcing cheer. “Brought breakfast.”
Sharon spun, eyes wide. “Martha, thank God. I heard Caleb. Is it true? Is Addicus planning to kill me?”
“No, love,” Martha said, setting the tray on the bed. “Caleb’s just stirring trouble.”
“But what if he’s right?” Sharon’s voice trembled. “What if Addicus tires of… hurting me and decides to end it?”
Martha took her hands, steadying her. “He’s not killing you. I won’t let that happen.”
Sharon’s grip tightened, desperate. “You have to help me, Martha. Find out if Peter’s alive. If he is, tell him where I am. I can’t survive another day here. Please.”
Martha’s heart ached. Helping Sharon meant risking everything—her family, her life. But the girl’s pain was a mirror to her own regrets. “I’ll find out,” she said. “The maids and I are going to the market today. Guards tag along, but I’ll slip away, head to Jacksonville, ask around about Peter. If I find him, I’ll tell him you’re here.”
“You will?” Sharon’s face lit with hope.
“Yes, dear. I can’t watch you suffer anymore,” Martha said, her voice firm despite the fear gnawing at her.
Sharon hugged her, tears brimming. “Thank you.”
“Eat up,” Martha said, smiling. “Extra cheese, just for you.”
Sharon dug in, and Martha cleared the dishes, her mind racing. In the kitchen, she rallied the maids for the market run, her rosary beads clutched tight. “Lord, keep me safe today,” she prayed, voice low. “Let me help this child.”
The beads felt heavy, a lifeline against the danger ahead.
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Addicus lay in his bed, sweat-soaked sheets clinging to his skin. His fever burned, but it wasn’t just illness—it was a war within, his mind fracturing under memories he couldn’t escape. Will had assigned a maid to cool his brow, but her damp cloths did nothing. The room reeked of antiseptic and dread, the air thick with his labored breaths.
In his delirium, he was twenty again, trapped in the past with Samantha Logan, her shadow looming larger than ever.
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Forty Years Ago
Addicus woke aching, his body a map of bruises from Samantha’s “playroom.” Sunlight stabbed through his curtains, mocking his pain. He couldn’t face the office—not with a meeting at Sam’s Cooperation looming. Seeing her again, her smug smile, would break him. He hated her, or so he told himself, the word a shield against the shame twisting his gut.
He summoned Martha, her young face free of the lines she’d carry decades later. “Breakfast in bed,” he ordered, voice rough. “I’m not going out.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, hesitating. “You alright?”
“Fine,” he snapped, waving her off. He sent word to Mr. Benjamin to handle the meeting, claiming illness. It wasn’t a lie—not entirely.
At Sam’s Cooperation, Samantha sat at the conference table, her tailored suit pristine, her eyes scanning for Addicus. The room buzzed with cigarette smoke and typewriter clacks, the '40s air heavy with ambition. When Benjamin arrived alone, her smile faltered.
“Where’s your boss?” she asked, voice sharp.
“Under the weather,” Benjamin said, locking the door to signal the meeting’s start. “I’m representing him. Shall we?”
“Of course,” Samantha said, her tone icy. She knew Addicus wasn’t sick—just avoiding her. The night before played in her mind—his resistance, his submission. She craved more, a hunger bordering on obsession. After the meeting, she drove to his mansion, determined to see him.
His guards met her at the gate. “He’s not receiving visitors,” one said, relaying Addicus’s shouted order to send her away.
Samantha’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, fury simmering. She left, but her mind churned with plans—punishments for his defiance. Addicus watched her car vanish from his window, his pulse racing. Hate wasn’t enough. He needed closure, a way to reclaim himself.
He limped to his wardrobe, fingers finding a hidden compartment. Inside was a small box, its wood worn. He set it on the bed, opening it to reveal a pistol, its metal cold and heavy. Holding it, he stared out the window, Samantha’s ghost lingering in his vision. His decision was made—he’d end this, one way or another.