With almost no light. Barely any food.
Sofia’s stomach turned.
Footsteps approached.
Quickly, she slid the painting back into place just as Victoria’s heels clicked down the hallway.
“Everything alright, Sofia?” Victoria asked, her tone stripped of sweetness.
“Yes, Mrs. Whitmore. Just straightening the frame—it looked crooked.”
Victoria stepped closer, her icy gaze lingering.
“Make sure everything in this house stays perfect,” she said quietly. “We wouldn’t want people looking where they shouldn’t.”
The threat was subtle—but clear.
Sofia knew then: she couldn’t whisper this to security. She couldn’t risk being silenced.
She had one chance.
Moments later, in the grand ballroom, Charles Whitmore raised his glass to make a toast.
Before he could speak, Sofia stepped forward and took the spare microphone.
“May I have a moment, please?”
Her amplified voice echoed through the ballroom.
The guests turned in confusion.
Charles looked stunned.
Victoria’s smile faltered.