Chapter 189

Chapter 189

Marlowe met the private investigator in a booth at a members-only club.

The booth was small but tastefully furnished.

Dark brown leather sofas, a solid wood coffee table, an oil painting on the wall.

This was Marlowe's usual spot — private, quiet, where no one would bother her.

The man sitting across from her was named Christopher. He was in his fifties, lean, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and a dark gray jacket. He looked completely ordinary, the kind of person who could disappear into a crowd without a second glance.

But Marlowe knew better.

He'd been in the business for over twenty years, taking on all kinds of cases — inheritance disputes among the wealthy, government corruption, catching cheating spouses, neighborhood feuds. The number of things he'd handled was beyond counting.

His strength wasn't in how clever his methods were. It was in how well he kept his mouth shut.

That was exactly why Marlowe had come to him.

Christopher sat across from her, his coffee untouched and long gone cold. He held an unlit cigarette between his fingers, turning it out of habit, watching calmly as Marlowe opened the manila envelope.

No small talk. No drawn-out buildup.

In this line of work, knowing your limits was everything. Knowing what to say and what not to say. Knowing exactly when to stop.

"Mrs. Tudor, everything you asked for is in there. It covers quite a stretch of time. I found everything there was to find."

Marlowe opened the envelope and pulled out the contents, going through them one by one.

Her expression darkened with each page. She gripped the photos so tightly her knuckles went white, her nails nearly pressing into the paper.

"Don't breathe a word of this to anyone."

Christopher stood up and gave a nod. "Mrs. Tudor, you have my word. I know how this works."

He didn't linger. He picked up the cigarette that had never been lit, tucked it behind his ear, and walked out.

The booth door clicked softly shut, leaving Marlowe alone in the room.

She sat on the sofa, her coffee completely cold now. She stared at the cup, but her gaze seemed to pass right through it, landing somewhere far away.

A lot of things came back to her.

Gloria sending her abroad to clear her head. Bianca showing up in tears. Her own decision to come home early. The steps she'd taken to smooth the path for Bianca, to stand in front of her and shield her.

Every step of the way, she'd felt like she was in control.

But looking back now, she'd been nothing more than a fool Bianca had used.

A cold glint passed through Marlowe's eyes. She stood up, grabbed her bag, pushed open the booth door, and walked out.

Her driver was waiting at the entrance. He saw her coming and quickly opened the car door.

He caught a glimpse of her face in the rearview mirror. She looked upset. He thought better of saying anything and quietly started the car.

Marlowe didn't speak the entire ride.

She leaned against the window, watching the city blur past outside, something raw and tightly suppressed churning behind her eyes.

She'd lived most of her life wading through the mud of the Tudor family, fighting her way through for decades. She'd seen every kind of person there was to see.

And yet she'd been run circles around by a woman barely in her twenties.

The car pulled up to the Tudor estate as dusk was settling in.

Marlowe's face was dark. She pushed the car door open before the driver could get out to open it for her and walked straight inside.

In the living room, Gloria was sitting on the sofa with a cup of coffee, lost in thought.

She looked up at the sound of footsteps. Marlowe was walking in, her expression thunderous, a manila envelope clutched in her hand, her eyes sharp enough to cut.

Gloria's gaze paused on the envelope for just a moment.

A flicker of understanding crossed her eyes, gone before anyone could catch it.

She looked down, set her cup aside without missing a beat, and stood up. Her face settled into a look of perfectly measured concern as she asked softly, "Mom, you're back. You don't look well — are you feeling okay?"

Marlowe was in no mood. She threw her handbag onto the sofa, her voice low and heavy. "Where's Bianca?"

Gloria seemed to flinch slightly at her tone — just enough, just right — then raised a hand and pointed upstairs.

"She's up there. Feeding the baby. She probably hasn't come down yet."

Marlowe's expression darkened further.

She said nothing more. She grabbed the envelope off the table and headed for the stairs.

Gloria stood at the foot of the staircase, head tilted back slightly, watching Marlowe's figure disappear around the corner of the second-floor hallway.

The corners of her mouth curved into the faintest smile. The look in her eyes was layered and unreadable.

---

Upstairs. The nursery.

Bianca was sitting in a rocking chair by the window, the baby cradled in her arms. One hand supported the back of the baby's head, the other held a bottle, the nipple resting gently against the baby's lips.

The baby wasn't very hungry. She latched on loosely, nursing on and off, occasionally making soft little sounds, her tiny hands waving in the air.

Bianca looked down at the baby's face, but her mind was somewhere else entirely.

She hadn't slept properly since that anonymous message came in last night.

Marlowe is looking into you.

The words had lodged themselves in her head like a splinter she couldn't pull out.

She didn't want to think about it, but she couldn't stop.

Who had sent it?

What had Marlowe found?

What was she supposed to do?

The questions kept spinning, round and round, until her head ached.

Then the door slammed open from the outside.

Bianca startled. The bottle nearly slipped from her hand. She jerked her head up and saw Marlowe standing in the doorway.

The light was behind her, making her face hard to read — but the energy coming off her, that barely contained fury, that urge to tear someone apart, was palpable from across the room.

"Mrs. Tudor?"

Bianca instinctively got to her feet, pulling the baby closer, her voice betraying her panic. "What are you doing up here?"

She didn't get to finish.

Marlowe crossed the room in a few quick strides, moving faster than anyone would expect from a woman her age, and pregnant at that.

She raised her hand.

And slapped Bianca hard across the face.

The crack of it split through the room.

The baby jolted at the sudden noise and immediately burst into screaming, sharp and piercing, loud enough to shake the walls.

Bianca's head snapped to the side. She stumbled back a step. A vivid red handprint bloomed across her cheek, and a thin line of blood appeared at the corner of her mouth.

She let out a cry, still reeling, when Marlowe hurled the envelope straight at her.

It wasn't sealed. Photos and documents spilled out and scattered across the floor.

Bianca looked down.

Her eyes landed on one of the photos.

In it, she and Joseph were standing in a hotel elevator. She was wearing a wine-red slip dress, her hair loose, her face flushed with the warmth of too much to drink. She was leaning into him like she had no bones left. Joseph's arm was around her waist, his fingers curled against the fabric at her side, his thumb pressing a small crease into the material.

Bianca's pupils contracted sharply. The blood seemed to drain out of her all at once, leaving her hands and feet ice cold.

"Explain this to me."