"Looking for something, sis?"
I jumped, whipping around to face the doorway.
Isabella stood there. She was wearing a stunning, tailored black dress that clung perfectly to her athletic frame. Her sharp features and striking dark eyes gave her a predatory elegance. She held a crystal glass of sparkling water, casually leaning against the same doorframe Julian had occupied minutes earlier.
I quickly curled my fingers around the watch, dropping my hand to my side, hiding it in the folds of my dark skirt. "I was just looking for a pen," I lied, forcing my voice to sound casual.
Isabella took a slow sip from her glass. Her eyes swept the room, lingering on the open filing drawer I hadn't had time to shut. "A pen," she repeated, her tone dripping with quiet condescension. "In the archived property files. You always did have a terrible sense of direction, Chloe. It's why Arthur worried about leaving the company in your hands."
"He never said that," I replied, my voice tightening.
"He didn't have to say it. He wrote it in the revised will," Isabella said smoothly, stepping into the room. "Julian is the designated CEO now. And I sit as the primary executor of the estate's liquid assets. The board has already approved the transition. It’s what Arthur wanted."
"I haven't even seen the original copy of that will yet," I countered. "Julian's lawyer only sent me a digital summary. I want to read the clauses myself."
Isabella stopped halfway across the room. Her expression didn't change, but her posture became incredibly rigid. "The dust settles where it's told, Chloe. The lawyers handled everything legally. Don't embarrass yourself by throwing a grief-stricken tantrum at the gala tomorrow. It would break Arthur’s heart if you caused a scene."
The dust settles where it's told.
It was a bizarre, specific phrase. I had heard Isabella mutter it under her breath last week when I suggested postponing the board meeting. I hadn't understood it then. I still didn't.
"I'm not going to cause a scene," I said softly. "I just want the truth."
Isabella smiled, a cold, thin line that sent a chill down my spine. "The truth is, he's dead. And you need to let him rest." She set her glass down on the edge of the desk. "Julian is waiting for you in the conservatory. Don't make him come up here again."
She turned and walked out, her heels clicking aggressively against the wood.
I stood frozen for a long moment, my fist still clenched tightly around the heavy gold watch. The metal felt warm against my skin. I waited until I was absolutely sure she was gone before opening my hand.
I needed to see if the watch still worked. I pushed the small top button to pop the face open. The hands were frozen at exactly 11:42.
My breath hitched.
I remembered reading the coroner's report. It was burned into my memory. The official estimated time of my father's death was between 3:00 AM and 4:00 AM. But my father never took this watch off unless he was going to sleep. If the watch was broken in a struggle at 11:42 PM, the medical report was fundamentally wrong.
I slipped the watch into my deep skirt pocket. I needed to leave the house. I needed to take the watch to someone who could analyze the damage.
I quietly left the study and moved down the sweeping main staircase. The massive foyer was bustling with catering staff setting up floral arrangements for tomorrow's memorial. I dodged a man carrying a massive bouquet of white lilies and slipped down the servant’s corridor toward the rear garage.
As I approached the mudroom, I heard voices coming from the shadows of the adjacent wine cellar. The door was slightly ajar.
It was Julian and Isabella.
I stopped dead in my tracks, pressing my back flat against the cold stone wall of the corridor.
"She was in the study," Isabella’s voice was a harsh, urgent whisper. "She had the bottom drawers open."
"Did she find anything?" Julian demanded. His voice lacked the patient, warm tone he had used with me upstairs. He sounded angry. Anxious.
"I don't think so," Isabella said. "But you need to clean out that room tonight. If she finds the discrepancy in the quarterly tax filings, she’ll call the board."
"I have the offshore transfers completely buried under dummy LLCs," Julian hissed. "The company records are clean. The only thing tying us to the missing twenty million is the security footage from the penthouse, and I erased that weeks ago."