Chapter 2 - The Poison in the CupWe slipped through the storm drains, crawling through ankle-deep silt and rusted iron pipes until we emerged miles away on the edge of an abandoned rail yard on the outskirts of Savannah Creek.
My body felt heavy, sluggish, and uncoordinated—a strange, persistent fatigue that I had foolishly blamed on overworking at the shipyard. But as Tobias shoved open a heavy rusted side door into an empty boxcar we could use as temporary shelter, my knees buckled beneath me. I collapsed against the dusty wooden floor, gasping for air as a wave of nausea swept through my stomach.
Tobias knelt beside me, pulling a small silver medical kit from his waterproof pack. He flicked on a penlight and shone it directly into my eyes, checking my pupils.
“What’s wrong with me?” I groaned, clutching my stomach. “I feel like my veins are full of lead.”
“It’s the milk,” Tobias said grimly, pulling out a sterile syringe and a small vial. “Garrett didn't just want you dead tonight, Rosalind. He wanted you incapacitated slowly over years. If you had died in your sleep, it would have been ruled a sudden cardiac event or an accidental overdose. The car crash was just a backup plan in case you started asking questions about the company audits.”
I stared at him in disbelief, my vision blurring slightly at the edges. “Poison? For three years? What kind of poison?”
“A synthetic heavy-metal compound developed by Sterling Pharmaceuticals’ experimental wing,” Tobias explained, his hands steady as he prepped an intravenous saline drip to help flush my system. “It mimics chronic fatigue, lowers cognitive reflexes, and destroys muscle coordination over time. It makes the victim entirely dependent on their spouse. That’s why you couldn't focus on the forensic audits of the shipyard. That’s why you trusted him with everything.”
Fury—hot, blinding, and absolute—surged through my veins, temporarily burning away the fatigue.
“He watched me drink it,” I whispered, tears of rage spilling over my lashes. “Every single night, he kissed my forehead, told me how much he loved me, and handed me a cup of slow death.”
“Men like Garrett don't feel love,” Tobias said, securing the IV line to my arm. “They feel ownership. And right now, he thinks he owns everything our family built. Penelope is carrying his child—or so she thinks—and once your death certificate is signed, Garrett legally inherits ninety percent of the Baltimore and Savannah shipping portfolios through your marital trust.”
I looked down at my IV bag, the clear liquid dripping slowly into my hand. The grief I had felt for my husband of three years evaporated, replaced by a cold, hardened resolve.
“He thinks I’m at the bottom of the river,” I said, my voice steadying.
“He does,” Tobias nodded. “Which gives us an advantage. He’s going to move fast to consolidate the corporate assets tomorrow morning during the emergency board meeting. He thinks he’s won.”
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“Then we’re going to his board meeting,” I said, standing up with Tobias’s help, ripping the tape off my IV line.
Tobias stared at me, a grim, approving smile touching his lips. “You really are our father’s daughter, Rosalind. But if we walk back into that boardroom alive, Garrett won't just try to drown us next time. He’ll make sure there’s nothing left to bury.”
