He slammed the printout down on the small table beside her daybed. His knuckles were chalk-white against the yellow legal pad. “We call the Constabulary. Right now. We tell them everything. The tea, the fern, the arsonist, the contract… she tried to kill you, Delancy! My delicate, perfectly constituted Delancy!”
Delancy, who had been lazily stretching a toe to tap the tiny music box back into silence, opened one eye. “The Constabulary? You mean, like, paperwork? And a trial? Sitting in a stuffy courtroom listening to people talk for hours?” She paused, wrinkling her nose. “Sounds utterly exhausting, Vaughn. It’s far too much hassle.”
Vaughn stared at her, his jaw slack. “Hassle? Delancy, she tried to poison you! To steal everything!”
“Precisely,” Delancy sighed, turning onto her side. “Which is why she needs to ruin herself, publicly and spectacularly, without me having to lift a finger or answer a single question.” She blinked at him, a glint of mischievous laziness in her eyes. “It’s far more efficient. And I have a plan.”
Across town, at The Azalea Bloom Country Club, the air hung thick with the clinking of silverware and the hushed tones of old money. Pru Vance, in her crisp new waitress uniform, navigated the throng with a tray laden with iced teas. Her eyes, however, were fixed on a figure by the grand marble fountain: the heir to the Sterling Concrete fortune, who had recently dumped her after a disastrous yacht party.
He leaned against the fountain, his tailored linen suit impeccably white, a sneering smile on his face as he recounted the story of Pru’s mud-splattered indignity to a gaggle of giggling socialites. Pru’s ambition, usually a tightly coiled spring, snapped. She strode directly towards him, the heavy glass pitcher of iced tea sloshing precariously.
The concrete heir, mid-punchline, looked up, his smirk faltering as Pru stopped directly in front of him. “Chadwell,” Pru said, her voice dangerously sweet. “I believe you forgot something at the yacht party.”
Before he could reply, Pru upended the entire pitcher. Ice cubes and amber liquid cascaded over his pristine suit, soaking his slicked-back hair and dribbling down his face. A collective gasp rippled through the club. The soaked heir sputtered, his neck purpling with sudden fury. Pru, her chin high, dropped the empty pitcher with a soft clatter. “That,” she declared, loud enough for half the room to hear, “was for my dignity, you insufferable toad.” She then spun on her heel and walked out, leaving a stunned silence and a dripping, fuming ex-beau in her wake.
Meanwhile, the Mercer Tech Headquarters, formerly a simple auto repair shop, hummed with the shrill whine of pneumatic drills. Banners proclaiming “MERCER TECH: INNOVATING COMFORT” fluttered over a freshly scrubbed concrete forecourt. Vaughn, still reeling from Delancy’s nonchalant dismissal of legal action, had thrown himself into her “Grand Opening Bait” scheme with a mechanic’s dedication to precise engineering.
Invitations, printed on sleek, metallic cardstock, had blanketed Velvet Cove. The most important one, hand-delivered by Kip wearing a tiny bow tie, had gone directly to Aunt Hestia’s mansion. It announced a public deed transfer ceremony, commemorating the official incorporation of Mercer Tech and the allocation of a “significant portion” of the Vance estate’s profits to the new company, ensuring Delancy’s continued “comfort fund.” The bait was irresistible.
The afternoon of the grand opening, a crowd had gathered: city council members in their finest leisure suits, local business owners eyeing Vaughn’s burgeoning empire, and a smattering of curious townsfolk drawn by the promise of free refreshments and gossip. A small stage had been erected, draped in patriotic bunting.
Delancy, positioned comfortably in a custom-built, cushioned chair on the stage, feigned a delicate yawn. Vaughn stood beside her, looking both proud and faintly terrified. Kip, beaming, handed her a plate of artisanal cheese puffs. Just then, a hush fell over the crowd.
Aunt Hestia stepped through the gates, her platinum coiffure stiff with lacquer, her emerald-green dress rustling against the gravel. A sharp, satisfied smirk curved her lips. In one hand, she clutched a sleek, chrome thermos. In the other, she held a small, antique microphone, its cord trailing from her clutch.
She climbed the wooden risers, tracking Delancy without blinking. Vaughn tensed, instinctively stepping closer to his wife. Hestia reached the podium, ignoring Vaughn, and turned to face the assembled crowd. Her lips parted in a thin, tight grimace. She raised the thermos slightly.
“My dear nieces,” Hestia purred into the microphone, her voice amplified across the courtyard. “It warms my heart to see such… prosperity. And on such an auspicious occasion, a celebration of new beginnings, a transfer of… assets.” She paused, letting her words hang in the air, before her eyes snapped back to Delancy.
“But before we sign anything, before we toast to future riches,” Hestia continued, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, “there’s a small matter of… family history. A secret, perhaps, that some of you might find… illuminating. Unless, of course, my dear Delancy, you would care to drink to our health, right here, right now.”