Chapter 2 - The Perfect Hostess
Thursday arrived with the crisp, biting chill of a New England autumn. The sky overhead was the color of slate, heavy with the promise of rain. I moved through the kitchen like a ghost, mechanically prepping the ingredients for the evening's multi-course meal.
At 10:00 a.m., a large unmarked van pulled up into our circular driveway. Two delivery men hauled a massive, oblong wooden crate through the front door, propping it against the wall in our spacious, minimalist living room. They draped a thick canvas drop cloth over it, hiding the enormous bulk from view. I tipped them generously in cash, signed the receipt, and watched them leave without saying a word.
Later that afternoon, the front door swung open with a familiar, lazy click.
"Claire! I'm home!" Daniel’s voice echoed through the hallway, dripping with the casual, practiced warmth of a man who believed his double life was completely secure.
He walked into the kitchen wearing a tailored charcoal suit, his blonde hair styled to perfection, smelling faintly of Tom Ford cologne and expensive scotch. He leaned over to kiss my cheek—a dry, mechanical peck he had perfected over the last year.
"Rough day at the university," Daniel sighed, loosening his silk tie and tossing his briefcase onto the island counter. "The board is breathing down my neck about the new endowment fund. Are we ready for tonight? Dad’s nurse called—they’ll be here by seven sharp. And make sure Victoria’s favorite vintage of Pinot Noir is chilled. You know how she gets if the temperature is off."
I kept my eyes fixed on the julienned carrots beneath my knife, my movements steady and rhythmic. Tap, tap, tap.
"Everything is handled, Daniel," I replied, my voice eerily calm. "Just like always."
He paused, a flicker of brief curiosity crossing his face. He looked at me, really looked at me, perhaps sensing the absence of my usual chatty demeanor or the hurried anxiety that typically accompanied hosting his intimidating family. But arrogance is a blinding shield. He assumed my quietness was just exhaustion from cooking.
"You're a saint, Claire," he murmured, patting my shoulder patronizingly before walking toward the stairs. "I’m going to shower and change. Don't want to keep the patriarch waiting."
I watched him ascend the mahogany staircase. The exact stairs he had walked down after spending the afternoon in our bed with his stepmother. The exact stairs he would walk down in a few hours to face his father's wrath.
At 5:30 p.m., my phone buzzed on the counter. A text message from an unknown number.
“Hope you enjoyed the preview, little girl. Remember your place tonight. Pour the wine, smile for Arthur, and don't forget who owns this house.”
It was Victoria.
May you like
I stared at the screen, a cold, humorless smile touching my lips. I didn't reply. Instead, I walked over to the living room, stood before the large, draped canvas, and gently brushed my fingers against the hidden wooden frame.
Everything was in position. The trap was set. All I had to do was wait for the dinner bell to ring.
