Chapter 3

After locking myself in my room, I spent hours trying to make sense of what was happening. The ability to hear Victoria's thoughts wasn't something I could explain, but it was real—as real as the bruises from my fall. As real as the hatred I'd heard in her mind.

When evening came, I couldn't hide anymore. Victoria had arranged a wine tasting in the lodge's cellar, and my absence would only fuel whatever narrative she was spinning to Christopher. I changed into a simple black dress, applied enough makeup to hide my pallor, and descended into what felt like a lion's den.

"Isabella," Victoria cooed as I entered the cellar. "I'm so glad you're feeling well enough to join us." Her smile was radiant, but her thoughts cut through the air like a knife. *Perfect timing. Christopher's already had two glasses. He'll believe anything I say.*

I nodded stiffly, accepting a glass from the sommelier Victoria had hired for the evening. Christopher stood beside her, his hand resting casually on the small of her back—a gesture so intimate it made my stomach turn.

"The Château Margaux is exceptional," he said, not quite meeting my eyes. "You should try it."

The sommelier began his presentation on the next wine, a rich burgundy that gleamed like liquid rubies in the cellar's dim lighting. As he poured, Victoria positioned herself between Christopher and me, her cream silk gown practically glowing in the candlelight.

*Now's the moment. He'll never believe her after this.*

The thought hit me a second before Victoria gasped and stumbled backward, colliding with the sommelier's arm. The burgundy arced through the air, splashing across her pristine gown in a violent crimson stain.

"Oh!" she cried, her hand flying to her mouth in apparent shock. "Isabella, why would you push me?"

I stood frozen, the accusation so absurd I couldn't immediately respond. I hadn't moved, hadn't even been standing close to her.

"I didn't—" I began, but Christopher was already at Victoria's side, his face contorted with anger.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous. "First you glare at her all day, and now this?"

"I didn't touch her," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "She's lying."

Victoria's eyes filled with tears. "I know you've never liked me," she whispered, "but I don't understand why you'd do something so cruel."

*This is working even better than I planned. Look at his face—he hates her right now.*

The triumph in her thoughts made my blood boil, but I forced myself to remain calm. Fighting would only play into her hands.

"I'm going upstairs," I said quietly. "Enjoy your wine."

As I turned to leave, I caught Christopher's expression—disgust mingled with disappointment. In that moment, I realized how completely Victoria had poisoned him against me.

Instead of returning to my room, I slipped into the study where Victoria had set up her laptop. The house was quiet; Christopher was likely still comforting her, giving me a precious window of opportunity. I needed evidence, something concrete to prove what I was beginning to suspect—that Victoria's manipulation went far beyond simple jealousy.

Her laptop was password protected, but after three attempts, I guessed correctly—"Aaron1988." The screen unlocked, revealing dozens of open tabs. Most were innocuous—shopping sites, travel bookings. But one email thread caught my eye: "Re: Potential Heart Matches."

My fingers trembled as I clicked on it.

"Dr. Croft—The Sterling candidate remains our best option. Type O negative, excellent health, no history of cardiac issues. Continue monitoring and prepare for extraction within the month. Aaron doesn't have much time."

The room seemed to tilt around me. Heart matches? Extraction? Who was Aaron?

I scrolled frantically through more emails, piecing together a horrifying picture. Aaron Hayes—Victoria's fiancé, apparently—was dying of heart failure. And Christopher, with his perfect health and matching blood type, was her target.

I needed more information. Closing the laptop exactly as I'd found it, I formulated a plan. The next morning, I would find this Aaron Hayes and discover exactly what Victoria was planning.

At dawn, I slipped out of the lodge, borrowing one of the cars without leaving a note. The nearest hospital was thirty minutes away. I dressed conservatively, pulled my hair back, and grabbed a clipboard from my bag. With a confident stride and a borrowed ID badge I'd modified with my phone's photo editor, I walked into Mount Sinai Southampton as if I belonged there.

"I'm with social services," I told the nurse at the cardiac care unit. "I need to review Aaron Hayes's file for benefit eligibility."

She barely glanced at my badge before pointing me toward a records terminal. My heart pounded as I typed in his name, praying my deception wouldn't be discovered.

The file loaded, and I stared at the screen in horror. Aaron Hayes, 34, terminal heart failure. Estimated survival without transplant: less than two months. Listed for transplant but unlikely to receive one in time due to rare blood type.

And there, listed as his emergency contact and fiancée: Victoria Hayes.

Suddenly, Victoria's obsession with my husband made terrible sense. She didn't want Christopher—she wanted his heart.