“Jerry, let’s go home.”
Home.
The word felt strange now.
The mansion no longer meant comfort. It meant memory. Childhood laughter. Family dinners. His mother calling him her king. And now—handcuffs, recordings, prison bars.
Jerry nodded slowly.
They drove back in silence.
Inside the mansion, the staff moved carefully, speaking in hushed voices. Some avoided eye contact. Some offered soft sympathy. Others simply watched.
Mirabel moved slowly through the living room and stopped at the grand staircase. Her body shivered.
Memories returned all at once.
The cold smile.
The fake kindness.
The poisoned food.
Jerry noticed at once. He crossed the room, wrapped a shawl over her shoulders, and said softly, “You’re safe now.”
Mirabel nodded, but safety does not erase trauma.
Fear leaves shadows.
Later that night, Jerry could not sleep. He wandered through the halls alone. Past old family portraits. Past the study his mother loved.
Then he stopped.
Madame Hannah’s study.
He hesitated before opening the door.
Inside, everything was still perfectly arranged. The scent of her perfume lingered faintly. Files were stacked neatly. Books aligned. A room built on control.
Jerry sat behind her desk. His eyes moved across papers, charity plans, business documents, family records.
Then he saw a locked drawer.
He frowned.
His mother had never locked anything away from him.
He searched the desk. In a jewelry box he found a small key. He paused. Something inside him said this mattered.
He inserted the key.
The drawer opened.
Inside lay several files and a small envelope labeled:
Jerry – Personal.
His heart skipped.
He opened it.
