The scream Julian Hale heard when he came home was not a cry of grief.
It was the kind of scream a person made when she realized that if her hands lost their grip, there might be no one willing to pull her back.
Julian had barely passed through the glass entrance of his mansion when the bouquet slipped from his fingers.
Twelve rare red roses struck the gleaming marble floor and scattered around his shoes, their petals spreading across the stone like small splashes of crimson.
For one bewildered second, he did nothing but stare.
Then the scream came again from the backyard.
“Please!”
It was his mother.
Julian ran.
He crossed the enormous living room, rushed past the cold fireplace and the dinner table that had not yet been touched, then stopped just inside the open doors leading onto the terrace.
The infinity pool shimmered beneath the warm outdoor lights.
And inside it was seventy-eight-year-old Martha Hale.
Her short silver hair clung to her cheeks.
The purple nightgown she wore was completely soaked, weighing heavily against her thin body.
Both of her hands were locked around the stone edge of the pool, but her trembling fingers were slowly losing their strength.
“Please… someone help me.”
Julian’s heart hammered against his chest.
He took a step forward.
Then he noticed the woman standing over Martha.
Bianca Laurent.
His fiancée.
The woman wearing the engagement ring that had cost more than many people made in several years.
The woman Julian had intended to surprise by returning from Chicago one day earlier than planned.
The woman he was supposed to marry in only eighteen days.
Bianca stood barefoot beside the water in an elegant cream dress, her long dark hair lying perfectly over one shoulder.
She was not calling for help.
She was not reaching toward Martha.
She was simply watching her.
And on Bianca’s face was an expression Julian had never seen before.
Contempt.
“Still pretending you’re helpless?”
Bianca murmured.
Julian remained motionless behind the half-open terrace door.
Martha lifted one shaking hand toward Bianca.
“Bianca… please.
Help me get out.”
For a brief moment, Bianca did not move.
Then she crouched beside the pool.
Julian almost stepped out, convinced she was finally going to help.
Instead, Bianca pushed Martha’s weakening fingers away from the pool’s edge.
Martha gasped.
Her body slipped lower into the water.
“Bianca!”
“You really thought Julian would pick you over me?”
Martha managed to seize the stone edge again with her other hand.
“He loves me.
I’m his mother.”
Bianca gave a quiet laugh.
“Exactly.
That’s always been the problem.”
Something inside Julian went cold.
His commercial flight had been canceled earlier that morning.
Instead of waiting, he had reorganized his schedule, chartered another plane and told no one that he was returning.
Not his assistant.
Not his mother.
Not even Bianca.
He had pictured himself walking through the doors with roses and champagne, catching his fiancée completely by surprise.
Instead he was standing in the shadows, listening to the woman he intended to marry speak to his mother as though Martha were an inconvenience that needed to disappear.
Martha’s mouth barely remained above the surface.
“Please…”
Bianca leaned down farther.
“Once I marry him, this house will finally belong to me.”
Julian’s hands closed into fists.
Move.
Every part of him told him to move.
Yet something held him there.
Perhaps shock.
Perhaps the sudden, terrible understanding that if he revealed himself too soon, Bianca might invent another story.
And Julian needed to know just how far this went.
Martha stared upward at Bianca.
“You won’t get away with this.”
Bianca smiled.
“I already have.”
She straightened.
“For months, I’ve been telling Julian that you’re becoming confused.
That you forget appointments.
That you imagine conversations.
That you accuse people of taking things you simply misplaced.”
Martha’s expression changed.
The fear was still there.
But now there was recognition too.
“You moved those things.”
“Of course I did.”
“My medication.”
“I moved that as well.”
Julian’s stomach twisted.
He remembered those incidents.
His mother had complained that her prescriptions kept vanishing.
Bianca would somehow discover them a day or two later in Martha’s bathroom cabinet.
Martha would insist she had already checked there.
Bianca would gently touch Julian’s arm afterward and whisper, She’s frightened. Don’t embarrass her by making a big deal out of it.
Julian had believed Bianca.
God help him, he had believed every word.
“You’ve been making everyone think I’m sick,” Martha whispered.
Bianca shrugged.
“You’re seventy-eight.
People already expect you to be confused.”
“You told him I was losing my memory.”
“I told everybody.”
Despite her exhaustion, Martha’s expression hardened.
“You’re evil.”
Bianca’s smile faded.
“No.
I’m patient.”
She stepped closer to the pool.
