The paper was a drafted obituary.
*His own.*
Dated for tomorrow.
Attached to it was a private clinic’s receipt for a lethal, untraceable cardiac-arrest inducer. The signature at the bottom didn’t belong to a hitman. It belonged to Dr. Aris—Evelyn’s brother.
John didn’t yell. He didn’t scream.
The absolute stillness that fell over his muscular frame was infinitely more terrifying. He slowly raised his eyes to the glass of red wine Evelyn was clutching.
“Where did you find this, sweetheart?” John asked, his voice a lethal, quiet whisper.
“In her vanity,” Mia choked out, tears spilling down her pale cheeks. “Next to the little glass bottle she said was special seasoning for your dinner tonight.”
The temperature in the room plummeted.
Evelyn’s perfectly cultivated mask shattered. The elegant, cold aristocrat vanished, replaced by a cornered rat. She took a step back, her heel slipping on the soapy marble.
“John, darling, it’s a misunderstanding—a sick joke—”
“A joke,” John repeated. He pocketed the paper and took three deliberate steps toward her.
Evelyn bolted for the double doors.
She didn’t make it.
John grabbed her wrist with iron force, twisting the wine glass out of her hand. It shattered against the white marble, the dark red liquid bleeding into the soapy water Mia had been scrubbing.
He didn’t hit her. He didn’t have to. Sirens were already wailing in the distance—John had quietly pressed the silent panic button on his silver watch the second he saw his daughter’s bleeding knees.
He forced Evelyn down, right into the freezing puddle of water and crushed glass.
“Mia,” John said gently, without taking his eyes off his terrified wife. “Go pack your things. We’re leaving.”
He leaned down, his voice icing over.
“Evelyn… start scrubbing.”