Chapter 6 - The Charity Gala
The night of the annual charity gala arrived with a steady, relentless downpour. Sleek black luxury cars lined the cobblestone driveway of my mother’s estate, their headlights cutting through the sheets of rain. Inside the grand marquee set up in the backyard, string quartets played softly beneath glittering chandeliers, and champagne flutes clinked among the local elite.
I stood outside the service entrance at the side of the house, dressed in a sleek, dark evening gown that blended into the shadows. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I punched in the old service code on the digital keypad.
Beep-beep-beep-beep.
For a terrifying second, the light flashed red, and a low alarm tone began to chirp. My breath hitched. Had she changed the code?
Then, Sarah—stationed near the main entrance inside the house—executed her distraction. She purposefully tripped a waiter carrying a tray of crystal glassware near the foyer, sending a deafening cascade of shattering glass echoing through the main hall.
Instantly, the security panel inside the service hallway reset itself, the light turning solid green. The door clicked open.
I slipped inside, closing the heavy oak door behind me.
The house was dead silent compared to the roaring party outside. The smell of expensive perfume, wax, and aged wood hung heavy in the air. I navigated the familiar hallways from memory, heading straight for my mother’s private study on the second floor.
Her study was her sanctum. A massive mahogany desk sat beneath a looming portrait of herself. Behind the portrait lay the wall safe.
I approached the portrait, my hands trembling as I lifted the heavy frame and set it carefully against the bookshelf. There it was—a heavy digital keypad safe flush against the drywall.
I needed the combination.
My mother was arrogant. She rarely changed passwords unless forced to. I thought about significant dates: her birthday, my father’s birthday, the day she acquired Blackwood Manor.
I punched in the date of the Blackwood Manor acquisition: 10-14-85.
The keypad beeped twice and flashed red. Access Denied.
I tried my own birthdate. Red.
Sweat beaded on my forehead as the seconds ticked by. If I entered the wrong code three more times, a silent alarm would trigger, alerting the private security guards patrolling the grounds.
I closed my eyes, taking a deep, grounding breath. What did my mother truly worship above all else? Not family. Not charity.
Control. Herself.
I typed in her favorite personal mantra—the numerical representation of her initials combined with her birth year.
E-V-7-5. Translated to numbers: 5-2-7-5.
I pressed enter.
Click.
The heavy steel door of the safe swung open smoothly.
Inside sat bundles of cash, jewelry, and right in the center, a small velvet pouch. I snatched the pouch and opened it.
Tucked inside was an old, ornate brass key with a jagged edge—the key to Blackwood Manor’s iron safe.
Suddenly, the study door clicked open.
May you like
I froze, my blood turning to ice water.
There stood my mother, dressed in an immaculate emerald gown, her eyes wide with shock, turning into pure, unadulterated fury as she looked at me standing before her open safe.
