Chapter 8: The Gathering at Oakridge

I feigned interest in Mark’s bribe.

“Let me think about it,” I told him, standing up from the hotel lounge table. “Give me until tomorrow. Let’s meet at the house. Just us. We can review your terms then.”

He looked surprised, a small smirk playing on his lips. He thought he had me, backed into a corner, ready to accept his meagre offer.

“Oakridge,” he confirmed, naming our Surrey home. “Tomorrow, 4 PM. We can sign then.”

The next day, the house felt strangely quiet. I had sent Oliver out on an errand, knowing what was coming, needing him to arrive precisely when I signaled.

I moved through the empty rooms, adjusting a painting, straightening a cushion. The house, once filled with our family’s laughter and arguments, now held a tense, expectant silence.

At exactly 4 PM, Mark’s car crunched on the gravel driveway.

I stood by the front door, waiting. He walked up the path, a briefcase in one hand, his fountain pen clipped to his jacket pocket, a triumphant smile on his face.

“Eleanor,” he said, stepping inside, not bothering to remove his shoes. He looked around the entrance hall, a proprietary glint in his eye. “It’s good to be back.”

He headed straight for the dining room, pulling out a chair at the long oak table, already imagining me signing away my rights.

“The papers are all here,” he announced, unzipping his briefcase. “Just a few signatures, and this can all be over.”

He pulled out a stack of documents, sleek and professional-looking, and laid them on the polished wood. He uncapped his fountain pen, poised to witness my defeat.

Just as he reached for the first page, the front door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoing through the house.

Mark’s head snapped up. He turned, his eyes scanning the hallway.

From the shadows of the study, Oliver stepped out.

He wasn’t carrying any legal documents. He held a single, thick, bound document, the one Arthur Pendelton had signed.

Mark’s triumphant smile evaporated, replaced by a sudden, chilling dread. His eyes widened, fixing on the bound pages in Oliver’s hand.

His fountain pen, still uncapped, clattered onto the table.