Chapter 7 - The Poison Hidden in My Dinner
Dominic Russo didn't run when I showed him the medical report.
He smiled.
That frightened me more than any confession could have.
"Arthur, you're allowing a maid to poison your mind against your own family."
Nora stood beside the desk.
"His doctors found something in his body."
Dominic looked at her.
"And suddenly you're a medical expert?"
"No," she replied. "But I know what a man looks like when he's getting sicker every day."
I raised my hand.
"Gabriel, keep Dominic away from the kitchens and secure the food records. Contact the investigators."
Dominic's smile vanished.
"You're turning on me?"
"I'm finding out who has been making me sick."
He stepped closer.
"Careful, Arthur. You don't know who you're accusing."
I stared at him.
"For the first time in years, I'm starting to."
Gabriel escorted him from the room without a struggle.
Then my legs gave way.
The floor seemed to move beneath me.
Nora caught my arm.
"Arthur!"
She called for help while Gabriel arranged emergency medical attention.
At the hospital, doctors explained that the suspected exposure required additional testing and careful treatment. They were particularly concerned about my dehydration, malnutrition, and prolonged inability to tolerate food.
For the first time in my adult life, I wasn't thinking about business.
I was thinking about whether I'd live long enough to have an ordinary dinner again.
Nora sat near my bed.
"You should've told someone how bad it was."
I almost laughed.
"I told everyone."
"Did you let anyone help?"
I looked away.
She had a point.
For years, I'd surrounded myself with people who feared disagreeing with me.
Even when I was dying, they kept presenting expensive food and telling me everything would be fine.
Nora took my hand.
Her fingers were warm.
"You don't have to be Arthur Vale every minute of the day."
I looked at her.
"Who else would I be?"
She smiled faintly.
"A man who needs to get better."
For the first time, I smiled back.
Three days later, doctors confirmed that a medication had been administered to me without a legitimate prescription or my knowledge.
Investigators traced unusual purchases to an account associated with Dominic's private staff.
But the most shocking discovery came from the mansion's kitchen cameras.
Every evening, after Chef Pascal prepared my dinner, someone entered the kitchen and handled the plated food.
It wasn't Dominic.
It wasn't the chef.
It was a woman in a housekeeping uniform.
Nora leaned toward the screen.
Then she went pale.
"I know her."
I turned.
"Who?"
Nora swallowed.
May you like
"That's my aunt, Rebecca Reed."
And according to Nora, Rebecca had supposedly been dead for twelve years.
