Chapter Seventy-Seven: The Panic
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN: THE PANIC
FLORA WHITMORE
I drove away from Serrano Isle like the devil himself was chasing me, my car weaving recklessly through traffic as I crossed the bridge back to the mainland.
What the hell just happened?
I'd gone into that mansion with such confidence, such certainty that I would emerge victorious, that Mother Serrano would thank me for exposing Anna's lies, that I'd walk out with the most powerful family in the city owing me a debt of gratitude.
Instead, I'd been slapped, threatened, and sent running like a terrified child.
"AHHHHH!"
I screamed and slammed my hand against the steering wheel. The car swerved violently into the next lane, horns blaring from every direction as other drivers laid into their horns, warning me, cursing me.
I wrestled the car back under control, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might burst through my ribcage.
I couldn't drive like this. I was going to kill someone, or kill myself.
I pulled over to the side of the road with jerky, uncoordinated movements and threw the car into park. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely turn off the ignition.
"AHHHHH!" I screamed again, this time hitting anything my hands could reach, the dashboard, the steering wheel, the window, my own thighs. Pain bloomed where my fists made contact, but I barely felt it through the panic consuming me.
My entire body was shaking. Trembling like I'd been submerged in ice water. Tears streamed down my face, hot and unstoppable, ruining what was left of my makeup.
Mother Serrano's words echoed through my mind on an endless, horrifying loop:
"If you try anything else, if you attempt to sabotage my daughter one more time, you will learn exactly who the Serranos really are. We don't just deal in legitimate business, Flora. We have... other interests. Underground connections. We could end you so completely that the public would forget you ever existed."
Anna had a support system. A terrifyingly powerful one. And they knew, they knew everything about Anna's past, about what had happened five years ago, about who she really was.
And they didn't care.
They were protecting her anyway.
I'd shot myself in the foot. No—worse than that. I'd blown my entire leg off.
"Anna is here to teach all of you a lesson. Every single person who hurt her, who used her, who betrayed her, she's coming for all of you. So I suggest you brace yourself and see if you can actually fight back."
Revenge.
Anna was back for revenge.
"No, no, no," I whispered, pulling at my hair with both hands, tugging until my scalp burned. My mind was racing, spinning out of control, trying desperately to find a solution, an escape route, anything.
But I kept hitting dead ends. Every path forward was blocked.
"Anna Serrano is my daughter. Anna Whitmore is a closed chapter."
"Shit!" I shouted into the empty car. "How? How the fuck did she do it?"
How did Anna infiltrate the Serranos? How did she become Anna Serrano, not just someone using their name, but their actual recognized heir? What story had she told them? What proof had she provided?
And more importantly, why were they helping her? What were they getting out of this arrangement?
The Serranos didn't do anything out of the kindness of their hearts. They were businesspeople, strategists, and players of long games. So what was their angle?
I dropped my hands from my hair, staring blankly through the windshield at the traffic passing by.
And then there was the girl.
That little girl I'd seen as I was fleeing the mansion, stepping out of a car, looking at me with confusion and concern in her eyes.
Anna's eyes.
But Abel's face.
My mother had told me the baby hadn't survived. She'd been so certain, so convincing. She'd said Anna wasn't even really pregnant, that it was all a manipulation tactic, that it was impossible for her to have carried a child to term after what happened.
She'd said...
"Damn it!" I cursed out loud, then immediately whimpered, pressing my fist against my mouth.
If that child was real, if she was actually Abel's daughter, if Anna was truly back for revenge with the entire Serrano empire backing her...
It wouldn't take long before Abel discovered the truth.
The truth I'd buried five years ago.
The truth that I had orchestrated everything.
My breathing became rapid and shallow. I was hyperventilating, but I couldn't stop.
No. I couldn't let that happen. I had to devise a plan, some way to ensure Abel still believed the lie I'd created, and still thought Anna had betrayed him. Some way to make sure Anna continued believing that Abel had been complicit in destroying her.
Because if the truth came out, if they ever actually talked to each other, if they ever compared notes...
Everything would unravel.
Abel would dump me immediately. He'd withdraw all his support, all his resources, all his protection. He'd probably sue me for fraud or manipulation or God knows what else.
And then he'd chase after Anna. He'd beg for her forgiveness, try to win her back, offer her everything he'd once taken away.
And Anna, victorious, vindicated Anna, would win.
Again.
She'd win again, just like she always did.
"Damn her! Damn her! DAMN HER!" I screamed, hitting the steering wheel with each repetition until my hands were sore and my throat was raw.
Why couldn't I ever truly win over her? I'd won once, five years ago, when I'd successfully destroyed her marriage, her reputation, her entire life. She'd left broken and defeated.
But now she was back. Stronger than ever. More dangerous than ever. And she was coming to sabotage everything I'd built on the ruins of her life.
Why couldn't she just leave me alone?
I had to do something. I couldn't just sit here and wait for my world to collapse.
My fingers drummed nervously against my thigh, trembling with fear and adrenaline.
Mother.
I needed to talk to my mother.
She'd helped me the first time. She'd been the one who'd confirmed the plan would work, who'd reassured me that Anna's baby wouldn't survive, who'd helped me manipulate Abel into believing the worst about his wife.
She'd know what to do now. She had to.
I turned the ignition with shaky hands, waited for a gap in traffic, and pulled back onto the road. This time I drove more carefully, forcing myself to focus despite the panic threatening to overwhelm me.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled through the gates of the Whitmore estate.
The mansion looked exactly as it always did, elegant, imposing, perfectly maintained. A symbol of old money and established power, though nothing compared to the architectural masterpiece I'd just fled from.
I parked haphazardly near the entrance, not caring that my car was blocking part of the circular driveway, and stumbled out.
I could hear voices and laughter coming from the garden, my mother's afternoon tea party was in full swing. She hosted them twice a week, gathering with her circle of equally wealthy, equally gossipy friends to exchange information disguised as casual conversation.
I made my way around the house toward the garden, my heels sinking into the perfectly manicured lawn.
They were all there, five or six women in expensive day dresses and designer accessories, seated around an elaborate wrought-iron table laden with fine china, delicate pastries, and fresh flowers. My mother sat at the head, playing hostess with practiced grace.
Until she saw me.
Her eyes widened in horror as I approached, taking in my disheveled appearance, my running mascara, my wild hair, my obvious distress.
"Flora!" she called out sharply, her voice carrying a note of warning.
I didn't care about discretion. I didn't care about maintaining appearances. I walked straight up to her and grabbed her arm.
"We need to talk. Now."
I tried to pull her up from her chair, but she jerked her arm away from my grip, her face flushing with embarrassment and anger.
"What is wrong with you?" she hissed through gritted teeth, her eyes darting to her friends who were all watching with barely concealed curiosity.
Then she turned back to the women with a forced, saccharine smile.
"You'll have to excuse me, ladies," she said with a light, practiced laugh. "You know how it is with children, doesn't matter if they're five or twenty-five, they always need their mother at the most inconvenient times. I suppose that's just the curse of raising them too well. They know exactly who to turn to in a crisis."
The women all laughed politely at the joke, though their eyes were sharp, cataloging every detail of this scene to dissect later.
My mother stood gracefully, still maintaining her composure for her audience. But the moment we were out of direct view, she grabbed my arm hard enough to bruise and practically dragged me toward the house.
"How dare you embarrass me like that in front of my friends?" she snapped the moment we were inside. "Do you have any idea how that looked? Bursting into my tea party looking like you've been crying in a gutter somewhere?"
"There's trouble," I said, my voice cracking. "Real trouble, Mother."
Her expression shifted slightly, alarm flickering across her features before she smoothed it away. But I could see I'd caught her attention.
"That may be true," she said coldly, "but you should have composed yourself first. You should have acted like everything was fine, smiled, made small talk, and then asked to speak with me privately. Not this, this scene. Do you have any idea what they're going to say about us now?"
"This is not the time to worry about your reputation!" I snapped, my voice rising despite my efforts to control it. "Mother, I'm serious. We have a real problem. A massive problem."
I took a shaky breath, trying to calm myself, trying to think clearly through the panic.
"We need privacy," I said more quietly. "Please. Let's go to your bedroom where no one can overhear."
She stared at me for a long moment, reading something in my expression that made her previous irritation fade into something more serious.
"Fine," she said curtly. "Follow me. And for God's sake, try to pull yourself together before the staff sees you like this."
We made our way through the mansion, past servants who carefully averted their eyes, past family portraits that seemed to judge us from their frames, up the grand staircase to the private family wing.
Mother's bedroom was a sanctuary of feminine elegance, all soft colors and expensive fabrics and carefully curated antiques. She closed the door firmly behind us and turned to face me, her arms crossed.
"Alright, what is it?" she demanded. "Spill it. What kind of fire is burning on the mountain?"