Daniel survived.
Barely.
Dr. Mercer believed he had been drugged.
The same substance found in Adrian's wine.
Not immediately fatal in a healthy person.
Potentially deadly for someone taking Adrian's heart medication.
Celeste had known about that medication.
So had Adrian's doctor.
His son.
His attorney.
And several members of the household staff.
The list of suspects was growing.
At midnight, Ethan unlocked the private wine cellar.
Nora stood beside him.
"You're staying upstairs," he had told her.
She had ignored him.
Now they descended a narrow staircase beneath the east wing of the mansion.
"You always do exactly what people tell you not to?" Ethan asked.
"Only rich men with control issues."
"That sounds exhausting."
"You have no idea."
The cellar was colder than Nora expected.
Hundreds of bottles rested behind glass.
Ethan walked toward a mahogany cabinet built into the far wall.
Behind it was a keypad.
He entered six numbers.
A hidden compartment opened.
Empty.
Ethan stopped.
"What was supposed to be there?" Nora asked.
"My father's estate documents."
"The trust?"
"Yes."
Someone had taken them.
Nora examined the shelf.
A thin white corner protruded behind the cabinet.
She pulled it free.
A torn envelope.
On the front were three words.
PERSONAL — A. WHITMORE.
Inside was a single page.
Ethan read it.
His face went still.
"What?"
He handed it to her.
It was a draft amendment to Adrian Whitmore's trust.
Nora read the first paragraph.
Then again.
If Adrian died before signing the new documents, Celeste Monroe would receive a massive share of his personal estate.
If he signed them —
she would receive nothing.
Nora looked at Ethan.
"So she had billions of reasons to stop him signing this."
"Yes."
"And tonight was the deadline."
"Yes."
"That seems pretty simple."
"Nothing in this family is simple."
A sound came from upstairs.
Footsteps.
Ethan switched off the cellar light.
Darkness swallowed them.
Nora felt his hand close around her arm and pull her behind the cabinet.
Someone entered.
Slow footsteps crossed the cellar.
A flashlight swept over the bottles.
Nora held her breath.
The person stopped only a few feet away.
A phone vibrated.
Then a male voice whispered:
"The girl recorded Celeste."
Nora froze.
Another voice came through the phone, too faint to identify.
The man replied.
"No. Whitmore didn't drink it."
Pause.
"Yes."
Another pause.
Then:
"I'll take care of her."
Nora's blood went cold.
Ethan's grip tightened.
The flashlight moved.
For one second it illuminated the man's face.
Nora recognized him.
The stranger from the ballroom.
Then the light went out.
By the time Ethan moved, the cellar door slammed.
They ran upstairs.
The corridor was empty.
"Who is he?" Nora demanded.
Ethan stared at the closed door.
"Victor Lang."
"Who is Victor Lang?"
"My father's chief financial officer."
