My Husband Forced Me to Serve Drinks at His Promotion Gala — Then the Board Announced I Inherited the Entire $40 Million Corporation
The air crackled with anticipation, thick with the scent of ozone and old dust. Marcus stood frozen, the briefcase heavy in his hands, his eyes locked on mine. The $1.2 million in bearer bonds, his ticket to freedom, felt like lead.
“Maya,” he rasped, his voice hoarse, a mix of fear and desperate bravado. “Get out of my way.”
I didn’t move. I simply watched him, a silent sentinel. The supernatural power within DuBois Manor, which had been building since Marcus first sought to desecrate its legacy, now reached its undeniable peak.
Phantom whispers filled the corridors, not just from the wind, but from every shadow, every corner of the vast house. They were faint, barely audible, yet they seemed to coalesce into an ancient, accusing chorus, speaking in voices centuries old. The temperature in the study plummeted to freezing. I saw Marcus’s breath fog in the air, just as mine had done days ago in the library.
He shivered violently, his grip on the briefcase loosening. “What is this?” he whimpered, his eyes darting frantically around the room. “Stop it!”
Then, a deafening *thud* reverberated through the entire mansion. It was the sound of the grand front doors, far down the hall, sealing tight on their own, the heavy bolts sliding into place with an unearthly groan. There would be no easy escape.
Marcus let out a strangled cry, his legs giving way. He collapsed to his knees, the briefcase tumbling from his grasp, the bearer bonds scattering across the polished floor like fallen leaves. He pressed his hands to his temples, his body wracked with tremors.
Shadowy apparitions began to coalesce around him, forming indistinct figures in the periphery of my vision. They were faint, translucent, but undeniably present, their forms suggesting the manor’s past owners, its true protectors. They surrounded Marcus, not physically touching him, but overwhelming him with a psychological assault. I saw his face twist in terror, his eyes wide and unfocused, staring at visions only he could see. He was paralyzed, not by physical force, but by sheer, unadulterated terror. He was witnessing his ancestors’ misdeeds, feeling the weight of their judgment, trapped by the spectral guardians of the DuBois bloodline.
A soft click, barely audible over Marcus’s whimpers, broke the spell. The small, unassuming side entrance, usually reserved for staff, opened silently.
Detective Raynard Moreau stepped through, followed by a squad of uniformed officers. They moved with practiced efficiency, their expressions grim. Moreau’s eyes scanned the scene: Marcus Gaines, crumpled on the floor, surrounded by scattered bearer bonds, utterly broken by an unseen force. He offered no fight, no resistance, just the low, guttural whimpers of a man consumed by his own terror. The phantom trap had claimed its victim.
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