Chapter 32 Ida’s Rage 1
6:00 PM
The house was transformed.
The debris was gone. The broken mirror was replaced by a piece of modern art—a chaotic splash of red and black that felt appropriate. The chandelier was gone, leaving the high ceiling open and bare.
The guests began to arrive.
The Senator. The Board members. The elite of the city. They walked in, whispering about the rumors, about the fire, about the scandal.
I stood at the top of the stairs, watching them.
I was wearing black.
A long, black velvet gown with long sleeves and a high neck. It was mourning clothes. It was executioner clothes.
Tristan stood beside me. He was in a tuxedo again, but this time, he wore a holster under his jacket.
"She’s late," he said, checking his watch.
"She likes an entrance," I said.
At 7:15, the front doors opened.
The crowd went silent.
Ida walked in.
She was wearing red. Bright, blood red. A dress that clashed violently with the understated elegance of the room. She wore diamonds at her throat and wrists. Her hair was perfectly coiffed.
She looked radiant. She looked victorious.
She walked into the center of the foyer, right where the chandelier had crashed hours before.
She looked up at us.
She smiled.
"Hello, family," she called out. "I hear you’re having a party. I thought I’d crash it."
Tristan stepped forward. He walked down the stairs, slow and steady.
"Welcome home, Ida," he said.
He stopped on the bottom step.
"We’ve been waiting for you."
Ida laughed. She looked around at the guests. She saw the Senator. She saw the Board.
"Look at this," she said, gesturing to the crowd. "A tribunal? Or an audience?"
"Both," I said, walking down to stand beside Tristan.
Ida’s eyes snapped to me. The hatred in them was palpable.
"Minerva," she purred. "You’re still here. I thought you’d be... packed."
"I decided to stay," I said. "I like what you’ve done with the place. The open-air concept in the library is very avant-garde."
Ida’s smile tightened.
"I’m glad you like it," she said. "I have so many more ideas."
She reached into her purse.
Every security guard in the room tensed. Hands went to holsters.
Ida pulled out... a gift.
A small, wrapped box.
She handed it to Tristan.
"For the housewarming," she said.
Tristan took it. He didn't open it.
"Thank you," he said.
"Aren't you going to open it?" she asked.
"Later," he said. "Right now... we have a presentation."
He gestured to the wall behind him. A screen descended from the ceiling.
"A presentation?" Ida asked, raising an eyebrow. "Is this about the Opera House? Boring."
"No," Tristan said. "It’s about history."
The lights dimmed.
The screen flickered to life.
It wasn't a video.
It was audio.
A voice filled the room. A soft, shaky voice.
"January 10th. I found the bottle. In her room. Under her mattress. 'Rat Poison - Arsenic Base.' I confronted her. She smiled. She just smiled and said, 'It’s for the vermin, Mother.'
Eleanor’s voice.
I had recorded myself reading the diary, then used AI to overlay it with samples of Eleanor’s voice from old home videos. It wasn't perfect, but it was haunting.
Ida froze.
Her face went white. The red dress suddenly looked like a wound.
"Turn it off!" she screamed.
"No," Tristan said.
The audio continued.
"I saw her looking at Tristan today. She wasn't looking at him like a sister. She was looking at him like a possession."
The guests gasped. Whispers broke out.
"It’s a lie!" Ida shouted, spinning around to face the crowd. "It’s fake! She made it up! Minerva made it up!"
She pointed at me.
"She’s a witch! She’s trying to steal him!"
Then, another voice filled the room.
Ida’s voice.
From Lorelei’s recorder.
"Tristan chose her. And I’m helping him."
No, wait. That was Lorelei.
Then... Ida.
"I’ll fix it. I’ll get rid of the interlopers. She’s a corpse."
The recording from the library. The one Lorelei had given me.
Ida stared at the speakers. Her mouth opened and closed.
The evidence was out. The madness was public.
Tristan stepped forward.
"It’s over, Ida," he said. "Vane has the accounts. The police have the diary. You’re done."
Ida looked at him. She looked at the guests, who were staring at her with horror. She looked at me.
Her face crumbled. The mask of the socialite fell away, revealing the terrified, angry child underneath.
"You betrayed me," she whispered to Tristan. "After everything I did for you."
"You killed our mother," Tristan said. "You killed my child. You didn't do it for me. You did it for yourself."
Ida let out a scream. A raw, animal sound of rage.
She reached into her purse again.
This time, she didn't pull out a gift.
She pulled out the gun.
"Drop it!" Silas shouted.
Ida didn't drop it. She didn't aim at Tristan.
She aimed at me.
"If I can't have him," she shrieked, "no one can!"
She pulled the trigger.
I didn't move. I didn't flinch.
Because I knew something she didn't.
The gun clicked.
Empty.
I had emptied the magazine in the storage unit. I had left one bullet in the chamber, and she had fired it at the wall.
Ida stared at the gun. She pulled the trigger again.
She looked up at me. Her eyes were wide with shock.
I smiled.
"I told you," I said softly. "I’m the architect. I account for hazards."
Police swarmed the room.
They grabbed her. They wrestled the gun from her hand. They handcuffed her.
Ida didn't fight. She just stared at Tristan.
"Tristan!" she screamed as they dragged her away. "Tristan, tell them! Tell them I love you! Tell them I saved you!"
Tristan stood still. He watched her go. He watched his sister, his monster, be dragged out of the house she had tried to burn down.
When the doors closed, the silence returned.
But it wasn't heavy anymore. It was clean.
Tristan turned to me.
He took my hand.
"It’s done," he said.
I squeezed his hand back.
"It’s done," I agreed.
We stood there in the foyer, surrounded by the elite of the city, holding hands over the spot where the chandelier had crashed.