Chapter 3
The week crawled by at Walter Reed. Stella changed her own bandages, swallowed tasteless hospital meals, and absorbed the nurses‘ gossip like poison.
“Colonel Reynolds brought lobster bisque again for Dr. Brooks,” sighed a nurse by the burn unit’s coffee maker. “That man memorized her Whole30 diet plan.”
Another chuckled. “Those Reynolds kids are glued to her bedside..”
On discharge day, Stella passed Celeste’s private suite. The door stood ajar.
“Finn,” Celeste’s voice floated out, gauzy with faux concern. “Shouldn’t you visit Stella’s room? She’s still your wife.”
Liam’s snort cut through the antiseptic air. “She’s built like a tank. Probably milking it for attention.”
“Yeah! Stop worrying about her,” Fiona chirped.
Finn’s reply could’ve flash–frozen the Potomac. “Irrelevant.”
Stella walked past without breaking stride, a ghost already leaving her own life.
At the Brentwood manor, Stella zipped her duffel when the front door crashed open.
Celeste glided in, arms laden with Cartier and Tiffany bags. “You shouldn’t buy these,” she demurred as Finn hung her cashmere coat. “These Van Cleef cuffs cost more than my med school textbooks!”
She turned with theatrical pity. “Stella hasn’t gotten a single gift after her hospital stay.” She lifted a platinum chain. “Here–take this. It complements your skin tone.”
Finn didn’t glance away from Celeste. “She wouldn’t wear it.”
“That kitchen grease would ruin platinum anyway,” Liam sneered.
Fiona draped herself over Celeste. “You should keep everything. She doesn’t deserve pretty things.”
Celeste’s eyes widened as if spotting Stella for the first time. “Darling! You’re home!” She advanced with jewelry box extended. “Please -pick anything! Finn spoils me rotten.”
Stella watched, silent as snowfall.
“Don’t be shy!” Celeste seized Stella’s bandaged wrist, forcing a necklace into her palm.
The metal stung like betrayal.
Stelia wrenched free. “Keep it.”
Celeste’s shriek pierced the foyer. “Aii-!” She collapsed like a shot bird, boxes exploding. Diamonds scattered across marble like frozen tears.
“Celeste!” Finn shoved Stella violently against the wainscoting. Plaster cracked behind her
ribs.
“I didn’t touch her,” Stella breathed through bruised lungs.
Finn cradled Celeste like shattered porcelain.
Her fingers fluttered against his chest. “My ankle–I must’ve twisted it…”
“She attacked Aunt Celeste!” Liam screamed. Fiona burst into rehearsed sobs.
Finn’s glare promised court–martial retribution. “Think hard about your apology.”
They swept out in a cloud of French perfume and righteous fury.
The children threw venomous glares like daggers.
Chapter 3
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Stella stood frozen amid the glittering wreckage–Van Cleef bracelets coiled like snakes on marble, diamond chokers spilling their icy
tears.
A macabre cabaret played in her mind: thirty years of scrubbing mess halls and starching uniforms, only to have her life’s work repaid with Cartier shrapnel.
The absurdity detonated in her chest–a silent blast that left her trembling with mirthless laughter.
Midnight swallowed the house, Stella lay staring at the canopy as cold seeped through century–old windows. No Finn–not that she expected him. He preferred couches to their marriage bed.
Then smoke clawed at her throat.
Stella lurched upright–and crumpled. Limbs weighed down as if drugged. Shadows shifted under the door.
Fiona’s whisper, “…sure this’ll fix mother? For good?”
Liam’s hiss, “Valium doesn’t lie. She won’t wake till the flames do.”
Ice crystallized in Stella’s veins. Her own children. Her blood. Architects of her execution.
Outside, gasoline splashed against oak panels like hell’s applause.
Chapter 3
