Chapter 3
Back at the luxury Boston penthouse, the atmosphere felt suffocatingly tense as Mark paced the imported hardwood floors of the living room. He stopped dead in his tracks the moment I walked through the front door, his eyes narrowing with immediate suspicion and latent hostility. "Where the hell have you been all afternoon, Clara? The caterers are arriving in an hour, and I expect you to look presentable for the preliminary investor dinner," he snapped coldly.
I kept my gaze lowered, intentionally adopting the submissive, fragile posture he expected from me after years of psychological conditioning. "I was just visiting my mother's grave and handling the initial funeral arrangements with my uncle," I murmured softly, letting my voice quiver just enough to sell the lie. Mark let out an arrogant, dismissive scoff, waving his hand as if my grief was nothing more than an annoying fly buzz. "Just make sure you don't wear that depressing black dress tonight; we have millions of dollars on the line," he ordered, walking past me without a second glance.
He had no idea that while he was obsessing over his precious Series-B funding breakfast, federal prosecutors were finalizing his indictment papers in downtown Boston. Eleanor emerged from the master suite, her silk bathrobe swishing against the floor as she gave me a look of pure, unadulterated contempt. "You look pathetic, Clara," Eleanor sneered, adjusting her diamond tennis bracelet. "Clean yourself up before you embarrass my son in front of his elite associates."
