Chapter 92
Elara
I was still leaning against Raven, my legs barely holding me up, when Sloane took two trembling steps toward me.
"Elara..." Her voice broke. "Is it... is it you..."
She pressed one hand to her small baby bump, the other reaching out as if to touch me, then pulling back. Her eyes were red-rimmed, glassy with unshed tears.
"I've been thinking," she whispered, "did I... did I do something to offend you?"
Julian's hand tightened on her elbow, but she gently pulled away, moving closer.
"At the gala, you pointed out the painting I gave was... was for funerals. I know I was deceived. That was my mistake." Her voice caught. "But why... why would you also..."
She couldn't finish. Tears spilled down her cheeks.
"The poison," she finally managed. "If I did something wrong, I apologize. I really do..."
Her hand trembled over her stomach. "The baby is innocent. The doctor said I almost... we almost..."
The words dissolved into a sob. Julian moved immediately, catching her before she swayed.
I watched the performance with something close to nausea.
"I didn't poison anyone," I said. My voice came out flat, toneless.
Sloane's eyes flickered—just for a second, I saw the triumph there. Then tears covered it again.
"But... Anna said..." She turned those wounded doe eyes toward Julian. "She said Elara told her to put something in my tea..."
"Who the hell is Anna?" Raven's voice cut through, sharp and angry. "And why should anyone believe her word against Elara's?"
Sloane looked at Raven as if noticing her for the first time. A flash of irritation crossed her face, quickly smoothed away.
"Anna is one of the housemaids at Blackwood," Sloane said softly. "She told the police that Elara... that Elara gave her a vial of powder. Asked her to put it in my drink." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Anna said she admired Elara. Said she thought the Vane family treated her unfairly. So she... she agreed to help. Even without payment."
The lie was so smooth, so detailed. I almost admired the craftsmanship.
"Then show me this vial," I said. "Show me my fingerprints on it. Show me any evidence beyond the word of a maid who probably got paid very well to say these things."
Julian's eyes cut to me. For a moment, something flickered in his expression—something I couldn't name.
Then he spoke, his voice cold and measured: "Nothing has been proven yet. Anna's testimony alone isn't sufficient for a conviction."
He looked down at Sloane, and his voice softened slightly. "But whoever did this should be grateful you and the baby are safe."
He paused, and when he continued, his voice carried the weight of a death sentence. "Otherwise... I wouldn't let it go easily."
Sloane seemed startled by the edge in his tone. She tugged at his sleeve. "Julian, you don't have to be so... harsh..."
But he wasn't looking at her anymore. His gaze was fixed somewhere past my shoulder, jaw tight.
"Poisoning someone in my house," he said quietly, "means you've gotten tired of living."
The threat hung in the air—directed at no one and everyone. At the real culprit. At me, if I was guilty.
I met his eyes, even though my knees were shaking, even though Raven's arm was the only thing keeping me upright.
"I won't let the real poisoner go either," I said. Each word cost me, my voice raw from fever. "Or whoever framed me."
My gaze swept across both of them—Julian, with his cold fury, and Sloane, with her perfect tears.
The air crystallized. Three people, three battle lines drawn.
Raven's grip on my arm tightened, as if she was afraid I'd collapse.
Finally, Julian broke eye contact first. He turned, one arm supporting Sloane.
"Let's go," he said. "The doctor said you need rest."
As they walked away, Sloane glanced back. Just once.
The look she gave me was pure, naked triumph.
---
The IV drip finished around five p.m. Raven helped me gather my things—my phone, my wallet, the few bills I had left.
We'd just reached the hospital's bright, sterile lobby when someone grabbed my arm.
I turned. Julian stood behind me, his expression unreadable.
Raven immediately stepped between us, protective.
"Your clothes," he said, his voice low. "Your things. They're still at Blackwood."
I'd almost forgotten. In my rush to escape the estate this morning, I even forgot to change back into my clothes.
"Then they're lost," I said. My throat was still raw. "I'll buy new ones."
His eyebrows drew together, like he hadn't expected that answer.
He studied my face—the pallor, the exhaustion, the way I was leaning slightly on Raven to stay standing.
Something shifted in his expression. Something almost like... uncertainty.
Raven couldn't hold back. "She's sick. You really expect her to go back to that—"
Julian's eyes cut to her, cold and dismissive. "This is between her and me."
Raven bristled, but she held her ground, still blocking me.
Julian looked at me one more time. "Suit yourself."
Then he turned and walked away, his back rigid.
Raven waited until he disappeared through the sliding doors. "Were those things really not important?"
I thought of my few possessions left behind. The worn jeans. The secondhand sweaters.
"They're important," I admitted. "But some things matter more than clothing."
Like dignity. Like refusing to be controlled.
---
We hadn't taken three steps outside when I heard my mother's voice.
"Elara! ELARA!"
Mamá ran toward us, breathless, her cleaning uniform rumpled. Her eyes were wild with worry.
She grabbed me, pulled me into her arms. "Why didn't you tell me you were sick? I thought... I thought..."
She couldn't finish. Just held me tighter.
Then a sleek black Maserati pulled up to the curb, blocking our path.
The window rolled down. Julian's face appeared, expression blank.
"Anna Petrova has been arrested," he said, his tone businesslike. "Tomorrow morning, ten a.m., Elara needs to report to the Manhattan precinct for questioning."
He held out an official police summons through the window.
Mamá looked at me—my pale face, my bandaged knees, the way I was swaying on my feet—and something inside her broke.
She marched up to the car window, her voice shaking but loud.
"How can you people do this to her?" she demanded. "Do you have no conscience? No fear of karma?"
Julian's fingers tightened on the steering wheel, but he said nothing.
"She's my daughter!" Mamá's voice cracked. "You don't care about her, but I do! Her father died saving your grandfather—is this how you repay him? By destroying his child?"
I'd never heard my mother speak to a Vane like this. Never seen her look one of them in the eye without flinching.
For a moment—just a moment—something flickered across Julian's face.
Then it was gone.
"This is legal procedure," he said quietly. "I'm just delivering the message."
A pause. Then: "If she's truly innocent, the investigation will prove it."
Was that... was that his way of saying he believed me? Or just another empty platitude?