When an outsider producer is framed for drowning a $50,000 pedigree cat, her celebrity daughter-in-law demands her total ruin, unaware a private confrontation will expose a $20 million poisoning co...
The cold stung my fingers as I lunged. My hand closed around the small glass vial before Chloe’s foot could even twitch. The frost-covered plastic crinkled under my grip.
Chloe’s expression froze, then twisted. Her phone, still recording, dipped slightly before she corrected it. Her initial triumph vanished, replaced by something sharp and calculating.
“What is that?” she snapped, her voice carrying across the icy deck. “What did you just pull out of your pocket?”
Barnaby, dripping and shivering against my chest, let out a low growl. His claws kneaded my damp sweater.
“My pocket?” I countered, my voice tight from the cold and the sudden adrenaline. “It just fell out of your designer bag, Chloe. The one Barnaby ripped open.”
A flicker of panic crossed her face, quickly masked. She swept her gaze to the two Kensington security guards now jogging across the penthouse terrace. Their faces were impassive, but their presence was a silent threat.
“Don’t let her touch it,” Chloe called out, her voice suddenly shrill, pitched for the camera. “She’s a narcotics user! She brought illegal drugs into this home!”
The guards exchanged a glance, their steps faltering.
My breath hitched. The absurdity of it hit me, even as the accusation stung. A drug user? Me?
“That’s a lie,” I said, but my voice felt small against the echo of her accusation.
Chloe laughed, a brittle, mocking sound that vibrated with manufactured outrage. She stepped closer, her expensive coat rustling.
“Oh, really?” she sneered, her eyes gleaming. “You’re telling me you just *found* a suspicious vial, right after trying to drown our family pet? You’re making quite the scene, Maya. And I have it all on camera.”
She gestured dramatically towards her phone, its lens pointed squarely at me. The security guards were now just a few feet away, their hands hovering near their belts.
My mind raced. She was good. Too good. She’d pivoted her entire narrative in a split second, turning my defensive action into a new, far more damning accusation.
“This isn’t about drugs,” I insisted, tightening my grip on the vial. It felt smooth, oddly heavy, beneath my numb fingers.
“It will be,” Chloe said, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper that was still loud enough for the guards to hear. “Believe me. The Kensington name doesn’t tolerate drug scandals. Not from outsiders.”
One of the guards, a burly man named Marcus, took another step forward. His eyes were fixed on the vial in my hand. He looked ready to physically disarm me.
I clutched Barnaby tighter. The cat shivered, burrowing his wet head against my neck. His fur smelled of chlorine and expensive cat shampoo.
I couldn’t let them take this vial. Not now. It was the only tangible thing I had against her.
I backed away slowly, keeping my eyes locked on Chloe. Her phone camera was still focused on me, a predatory glint in her eyes.
“This isn’t over,” I said, my voice low. “Not by a long shot.”
Chloe merely smiled, a cold, triumphant curve of her lips. The two security guards stood between us, waiting for her next command.
I knew I couldn’t fight them off. Not here. Not with Chloe filming. I had to get this vial analyzed. It was my only way out of the trap she was setting.
I turned and walked briskly towards the back entrance, leaving Chloe and her security team on the freezing terrace. I could feel their eyes on my back, the digital weight of Chloe’s camera still recording my retreat.
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