The Onyx Room was the kind of bar where the lighting was low enough to hide sins and the cocktails cost fifty dollars.
Cynthia Sharpe sat in a velvet booth, swirling a martini. She watched Seraphina Rivers slide into the seat opposite her. Seraphina looked haggard, her “cancer patient” makeup gone, leaving her looking just ordinary and desperate.
“You look terrible,” Cynthia noted dryly.
“He knows,” Seraphina hissed, ignoring the insult. “William knows about the fake charts. He liquidated the assets. He hates me, Cynthia. And now…” She swallowed hard. “Now she’s pregnant. A real baby. I can’t compete with a real baby.”
Cynthia took a slow sip of her drink. “Of course you can’t. Biology is tedious that way.”
She set the glass down. “But William is a man of logic. He values stability above all else. He currently feels guilty, but guilt fades. What remains is his need for control.”
“So?” Seraphina asked. “He thinks she’s a saint.”
“For now,” Cynthia smiled, a shark-like expression that mirrored Dominic’s but lacked the warmth. “But pregnant women are hormonal. They are emotional. They are… fragile.”
Cynthia slid a manila envelope across the table. “We don’t attack the body, Seraphina. We attack the mind. If we can make Victoria look unhinged–paranoid, hallucinatory, unfit–William will have to step in. He will take the baby to protect it. And he will need a sane, supportive partner to help him raise it.”
Seraphina opened the envelope. Inside were blueprints of the Croft Manor East Wing, schedules of the staff, and a small vial of clear liquid.
“Gaslight,” Seraphina whispered, a smile slowly returning to her face.
“We make her crazy,” Cynthia agreed, clinking her glass against Seraphina’s water. “To the happy couple.”