Chapter 149 Send Rachel to Jail! (1)
Eric's words landed like a stone in Amelia's chest. Michael had never sent her a dress.
Which meant…the red slip dress she was wearing tonight hadn't come from him at all. Someone had used his name to make sure she wore it to the party.
Why a red dress?
Because when Ryan's episodes hit, he would attack anyone wearing that color without conscious thought. Whoever orchestrated this knew it—and intended to use it.
In other words, the person behind tonight's events wanted Ryan's hands to become the weapon that killed her.
Kevin and Chris were the only ones who remembered every detail of Ryan's abduction years ago, but Kevin had told her once—after Ryan returned from treatment, Jenny had warned the entire Martinez family. Never leave him alone in the dark. And never, under any circumstances, let him see a woman in a red dress when he was in that state.
That meant everyone in the family knew.
And Amelia's gut whispered the truth: only Rachel could devise something this cruel, something that would hurt Ryan and destroy her at the same time.
But there was no proof.
If she wanted to expose Rachel, she needed evidence.
Leaning against the wall outside Ryan's room, Amelia closed her eyes and replayed every moment of the night.
She had received the red dress and stepped out of her room. The chandelier in the living room exploded, the wiring shorted, and Zander was slashed by flying glass. Ryan had left the hall before the blast, returning to his room. The blackout hit, and he was alone in the dark, locked inside. Then…he saw her in the red dress and tried to kill her.
If the goal was only her death, Zander's injury might have been collateral damage—or a distraction.
But Ryan's episode was the linchpin.
No blackout, no episode.
No locked door during the blackout, no episode.
No red dress, no attempt on her life.
Four critical elements: the dress, the chandelier blast, Ryan going back to his room, and the locked door.
The dress's origin was untraceable. The servant who delivered it said it had arrived via express courier.
Rachel was vicious, but not stupid. Whether Michael had sent it could be checked with a single question, so she wouldn't leave a trail with the delivery.
The chandelier's destruction was equally impossible to investigate. By the time Amelia had taken Zander upstairs to treat his wound, the servants had already swept away the shards and the ruined fixture.
As for why Ryan had gone back to his room before the blackout—he was still unconscious, unable to answer.
Only one thing could be traced: who locked his door.
It could only have been locked from the outside.
If Ryan had locked it himself, he would have opened it the moment the lights went out, not battered it with fists and kicks until the panel splintered.
And no—there was no such thing as a lock "just happening" to jam. Not with this many coincidences.
If someone had locked it at the exact moment the blackout hit, that person had to be on the third floor.
Who wasn't on the first floor when the lights went out?
Amelia remembered—when the power died, she had stepped out with a flashlight and seen every guest in the living room, including Rachel.
Rachel had been there, standing beside Yvette.
So…who else?
Her mind flicked to another detail. After the blast, Kevin had told Orla to fetch the emergency lamp. She hadn't responded.
Later, when Zander's injury was discovered, Kevin had asked again—"Where's the lamp? Why hasn't it come yet?"—and only then had Orla appeared, rushing in with it.
Every servant had been busy downstairs.
If Orla had been on the first floor, she would have answered immediately. She wouldn't have taken so long to produce the lamp.
Amelia's breath tightened. She straightened and headed for the servants' quarters.
Inside, Orla was tucking a small remote deep into the back of her wardrobe—the detonator for the micro-bomb hidden in the chandelier. Relief washed over her.
Rachel's meticulous plan had only half succeeded. Ryan had had his episode, but Amelia was still alive.
It didn't matter. Orla had done everything Rachel asked. The payment—five hundred thousand—was hers.
She wasn't worried about being caught.
The red dress had been sent by courier. The micro-bomb had been tossed out with the shards of the chandelier. There were no cameras at the door to the third young master's room. No one could prove she had locked it.
If anyone suspected her, she would deny everything. Without evidence, they couldn't touch her.
Her thoughts drifted to her son. The money meant he could study abroad, get the kind of education reserved for the upper class. Once he made something of himself, she would never have to bow and scrape for these rich families again.
She was still savoring the thought when the door handle gave a faint metallic click.
"Who's there?" she called, instinctively glancing at the lock.
She wasn't afraid—she had locked it herself moments ago.
Then the lock shifted again…and snapped. The handle hit the floor.
Orla's pupils went wide, her breath catching in her throat.
Before she could react, the door swung open.
Amelia stepped inside.
Beside her, a small black-furred cat with green eyes padded silently across the threshold.
"Miss Martinez?" Orla stammered, unable to believe a girl so slight had just ripped a lock apart.
She backed away instinctively, mouth opening to speak—but Amelia's hand clamped over her arm.
No words. No warning.
One hand covered Orla's mouth, the other seized her right wrist.
Amelia's grip tightened.
A sharp crack split the air.
Orla's muffled cry pitched high, swallowed by the hand over her lips. Pain ripped through her nerves, white-hot and brutal, her wrist twisted until the bone gave way.
Her vision tunneled. The agony was so blinding she almost blacked out on the spot.