But Eleanor showed none of it.
Only calculation.
“You need to leave,” Eleanor said quietly.
Fiona felt it then.
The shift.
This wasn’t panic.
This was exposure.
“You knew,” Fiona said.
Eleanor’s lips curved—just slightly.
“Be careful what you think you understand.”
Arthur’s hand grabbed Fiona’s sleeve.
“Don’t go.”
That did it.
Fiona stepped forward.
“There are needles in that pillow. Poison. This wasn’t an accident.”
Silence.
Then Eleanor sighed.
Not surprised.
Not defensive.
Just… tired.
“You weren’t supposed to find it this soon.”
The room went still.
Fiona’s stomach dropped.
“You’re admitting it?”
Eleanor’s gaze moved to Arthur.
For the first time, there was something in her eyes.
Not love.
Not hatred.
Something colder.
“He was never meant to live long,” she said.
Fiona felt her pulse in her throat.
“What?”
Eleanor walked in slowly, heels soft against the floor.
“Arthur was born with a condition. Rare. Degenerative. Painful. The kind that drags on for years. Specialists told us what his life would be.”
Arthur shook his head weakly.
“No…”
Eleanor didn’t look at him.
“They gave us timelines. Treatments. Hope. All very expensive. All very pointless.”
Fiona’s voice sharpened.
“So you decided to murder him?”
Eleanor finally met her eyes.
“I decided to end something that was already ending.”
“That’s not your choice.”
“It is when you’re the one watching it happen.”
Fiona stepped closer.
“No. This? This is control. This is cruelty.”
Eleanor’s composure cracked—just a fraction.
“You think you understand suffering because you see it in a hospital?” she snapped. “You don’t take it home. You don’t watch it eat your life piece by piece.”
Arthur was crying now.
Silent tears.
Fiona knelt beside him, shielding him.
“You don’t get to decide his life is over because it’s inconvenient for you.”
Eleanor’s voice dropped again.
Cold.
Final.
“It was never about inconvenience.”
Fiona froze.
“Then what?”
Eleanor smiled.
This time, it wasn’t subtle.
“The inheritance.”
The word landed like a gunshot.
