Chapter One Hundred and Twenty Four

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty Four

Lachlan

My phone beeps twice, signaling an incoming notification. My Bluetooth earpiece connects the call as I reach for the device.
Boyd has acted swiftly, already forwarding Ellie Banks’ dossier. It is his call I receive.
"I just sent the information over, Lachlan," Boyd’s voice emits from the earpiece.
"I’ve received it," I confirm, already scanning her profile.
"Why are you looking into her, anyway? She’s just a wealthy brat who inherited a fortune after her parents’ untimely deaths."
"Are you certain this is all you could find?" I inquire, perusing the file. It isn’t as exhaustive as I expected. Ellie Banks’ life must have been a closely guarded secret while her parents were alive.
"Yes. She’s incredibly reclusive. It wasn't until her parents died that the media caught even a glimpse of her."
It is understandable now why she hoards technology like drones and robotic assistants; they are her only companions. As the sole heiress to a massive estate, she must have been sequestered within their fortress most of her life.
That explains her social ineptitude. A lady does not typically proposition a man; she does not force her affections upon him.
"I accept no rejection."
I recall her words, my nostrils flaring. There is nothing definitive in the dossier. No childhood sightings. No related articles. No photographs with friends until two years ago, following her parents’ deaths, when she finally stepped into the limelight.
Ellie is twenty-seven, yet she has been effectively cloistered for twenty-five years.
"Are you certain this is all there is?" A flicker of suspicion flares within me. Even if she were hidden, had her parents never allowed her to step foot outside? "How could not a single image exist until after their deaths?"
"She was painstakingly concealed," Boyd replies. "As the heir to that much wealth, she would have been a prime target. I doubt her extended family even knew her identity until she stepped forward to claim her inheritance."
"Is that an assumption or a fact?"
"Factual. Her existence was a vacuum until her first public appearance."
The dossier begins properly only at that point.
"And did you investigate the drone tech I mentioned?"
"I did. But I found a model with a far more impressive upgrade."
I narrow my eyes, returning the phone to its holder. "Tell me about it."
A devilish smile plays on my lips as Boyd details the features of the upgraded drone. My plan for revenge just became far more sophisticated.

Aiden

I kill the ignition upon arriving at my destination. I had called ahead to ensure I could visit.
I exit the car to gather the items I’ve brought: restorative beverages, nutritional supplements, and other essentials for geriatric health.
"Aiden, my dear," the shaman says, sitting up slowly as I enter her sitting room.
My nose wrinkles at the scent of illness and stagnant air permeating the room.
"Ma'am, you’ve been ill? Why didn’t you tell me? I could have arrived sooner to take you to a hospital," I say, my shoulders tensing with concern.
The shaman shakes her head, every movement a visible struggle. "I do not need a hospital."
We may share an aversion to clinical environments, but it reeks worse in here than any ward. I set the packages on a nearby table and reach for my phone. "I’m calling a doctor to treat you here."
"Do not trouble yourself," she dismisses the idea with a weak wave of her hand.
"I can’t simply leave you in this state," I protest.
"I’m well past my years of vigor. If death comes knocking now, so be it," she says with a soft groan.
The chair creaks beneath her weight as she adjusts her position.
I consider hiring an assistant for her—someone to clean the surroundings and make the place more habitable. If she allows me, I can provide a list of essentials, starting with an air purifier. It is difficult to breathe with the cloying scent of dust, an unwashed body, and burning incense. Still, I doubt anyone would be enthusiastic about working for the old woman.
"Have you eaten? Have you bathed? What can I help you with? Please, let me know," I tell her, undoing my cufflinks and rolling up my sleeves.
"Please," I urge as the shaman begins to shake her head. "You will clean yourself up while I tidy this place and prepare a warm meal for you."
I wonder when she last ate. Given her struggle to sit up, I can tell she has only managed to light the incense in her shrine and nothing more. She is living entirely alone.
What if I hadn't called? Would she have wasted away in this filth, dying unnoticed until she rotted?
Moments like this are when a daughter would have been a blessing, if only she were still alive.
"Ma'am, please." I move to her side to help her up, leading her toward her room.
While she is inside, I make quick work of cleaning and checking the meager supplies in her kitchen. There is only enough to make porridge. She definitely needs a caregiver.
I set to work, alternating between scrubbing and cooking. By the time I am finished and everything is set, I expect her to have emerged, but she is nowhere to be seen.
Fear lances through my spine; perhaps she succumbed to fatigue in the bathroom and got hurt.
"Shaman! Ma'am! Shaman!" I knock on her bedroom door, hesitant to enter. I strain my ear against the wood, listening for any sound. If I do not hear water running or the shuffling of feet, I am going in, consequences be damned.
Just as I reach for the handle, the door opens from the inside. A wave of relief sweeps through me when I see she has cleaned up.
"The room is warded against sound to keep unauthorized people out," she says.
I make way for her as she trudges past me, closing the door behind her.
"You wouldn't have been able to hear my response," she notes, moving heavily toward the sitting room. She pauses at the entrance, taking in the tidied space and the fresher scent of the room compared to when I first arrived.
"You cleaned?" She regards me with a look of sheer disbelief.
"I had a humble beginning with my mother. Sanitation is not beneath me," I reply, mentally adding even now that I’m wealthy.
The shaman inhales and exhales, nodding in approval as she sits down.
"I prepared some porridge as well. Even if you don't feel like eating much, have some to warm your belly."
She signals her acquiescence, and I spring into action. After she has had her fill, she reclines in her chair while I clear the table and wash the dishes. I hadn't been able to prepare much from the scraps left in her house.
How has she been surviving with next to no sustenance? It is a mercy there was still fuel in her stove, otherwise... I exhale a deep breath through my nose.
I cannot spend the night, yet someone needs to be here for her. I cannot leave her in this state and simply head home.
"Should I call a caregiver over?"
She opens her eyes. "I do not trust strangers in my home."
"You need someone to care for you, Shaman. You could have died had I not called and visited."
"If death comes knocking..."
"Please," I interrupt. "Let me take care of you. Let me do what is necessary, as a grandson would."