Lady Beatrice sat at her vanity, staring at her reflection. She looked aged, her skin grey with terror. The door to her bedroom opened.
Alistair walked in. He didn’t speak. He just placed a heavy hand on her shoulder and squeezed. The scent of his cologne–sandalwood and cold spice–filled the room.
The smell triggered a violent neural pathway.
*Ten years ago.* The library. Beatrice was crying, begging him not to do it.
*”Stop whining, Beatrice,” Alistair had commanded, handing her the syringe. “The Feds are coming. I need to be dead before they get here. Do it.”*
*She remembered the weight of the needle. The paralytic agent that would slow his heart rate to a near-stop, simulating death long enough to fool the coroner he had bribed. She remembered injecting her husband, watching his eyes roll back, and hearing his final, cruel laugh before the drug took hold.*
*”Don’t mess it up,” he had whispered. “Or I’ll kill the twins.”*
Back in the present, Beatrice gasped, the memory suffocating her. She retched, the scent of sandalwood acting as a chemical shackle, reminding her that she was not just a victim, but an accomplice.