THE BILLIONAIRE'S DEAD WIFE

CHAPTER 7: THE MOTHER

The pantry smelled like flour and old apples.

I stood in the dark with a baby that wasn't mine, pressed against sacks of rice, while Damian's footsteps came closer.

Maya didn't cry. She stared up at me with those green eyes — Damian's green eyes — and put her tiny hand on my scar. Right over my right eyebrow. Her hand was warm.

Mrs. Finch's voice from kitchen, calm like nothing happened: "Just talking to myself, Mr. Damian. Old women do."

"At 2:17 AM?" His voice was closer now. Kitchen door creaked.

"Tea. Can't sleep. Would you like tea?"

"I heard a baby."

Baby. The word fell in kitchen like a glass breaking.

Silence. Then Mrs. Finch laughed, too loud. "Baby? Mr. Damian, there is no baby in this house. You have been drinking again. I told you whiskey brings dreams."

"I don't dream about babies, Mrs. Finch."

"Then you dream about Elara. She wanted a baby. You know she did. You remember."

Another silence. Longer this time.

I held Maya tighter. She made small noise, about to cry.

I covered her mouth gently with my hand — not hard, just to muffle — and hummed without thinking. C, E, G. The lullaby Lena hummed. The notes from music box. The notes Elara played when upset.

Maya went quiet. She closed eyes and listened to my terrible humming.

Outside pantry, Damian sighed. "Fine. I'm going to bed. My mother arrives at 10 AM. I need you both ready. Elara — Zara — must be perfect. If mother sees —"

"If mother sees what?" Mrs. Finch asked, voice sharp now.

"If she sees that Zara is not Elara, merger fails. Company fails. Everything my father built fails. She has to sign. She has to believe Elara is back."

"And if she doesn't believe?"

"Then we lose Blackwood Freight. 400 workers lose jobs. Including your sister at bait shop."

He walked away. I heard front stairs, his bedroom door, lock.

Mrs. Finch opened pantry. Her face was white.

"Give her to me," she whispered, taking Maya. "You saved her."

"Is she — is she really here? In house? Where does she sleep?"

"Attic. Behind old trunks. There is small room. No one goes there. I bring milk. Lena — Elara — built it when she was 8 months pregnant. She stayed 3 weeks after birth, then had to go. She left Maya with me. Said she would send money. She didn't. She disappeared. Until you came. You look like her, so she came back."

"Where is Lena now? She took bus —"

"She didn't take bus to Grayport City. She took bus to next town, got off, came back through woods. She is in attic now, with Maya. She came back because you took photo of account number. She needs $2,000,000 to leave for good. With Maya. Before Mrs. Blackwood finds baby."

My head spun. Lena in attic. Maya in attic. $2,000,000 in locker 7. And tomorrow, dying mother who is not dying.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"2:34 AM."

"We have 7 hours."

Mrs. Finch nodded. She looked old in kitchen light. Old and scared.

"Go sleep, Zara. Put on blue dress tomorrow. Pearls. Cover scar. And whatever happens at tea — don't mention baby. Don't mention Havenport. Don't mention account. Evelyn Blackwood is not dying woman. She is shark. She smells blood from miles."

I went upstairs. I didn't sleep. I sat on floor with back against locked door like Chapter 4, but now I had baby crying in my memory and photo in locker 7.

At 6:00 AM, I got up. I put on blue dress with pearls, like Mrs. Finch said. Blue dress was tight, expensive, with small pearls sewn into sleeves. Elara's wedding dress was white, but this was her engagement tea dress, photo on dresser showed her smiling in it, Damian's arm around her, both young, both not yet cold.

I covered scar with makeup from top drawer, thick concealer that smelled like old roses. Scar disappeared. Now I looked even more like her.

Downstairs, kitchen was clean. No baby. No sign of baby. Mrs. Finch made eggs like nothing.

"She eats at 10," she said. "Sharp. Don't be late."

At 9:30, Damian came downstairs in gray suit, perfect hair again, no whiskey smell. He saw me in blue dress and stopped at bottom of stairs.

For a second, his face did something — softened, broke, remembered.

"Elara wore that when I proposed," he said quietly.

"I know. Photo."

"You look..." He didn't finish. He looked away. "Pearls?"

I touched pearls. Grandmother's pearls.

"Good. Mother will see."

At 9:58 AM, black car came, longer than Damian's, with driver. No Range Rover — Rolls Royce, old, polished.

Mrs. Finch opened front door. Cold ocean wind came in.

And Evelyn Blackwood came in.

She was not what I expected. I expected old dying woman in wheelchair. She was 70, tall, straight back, silver hair cut short like helmet, wearing black suit with no jewelry except one diamond brooch shaped like ship. She walked with cane, but she didn't need cane — she hit floor with it for sound.

She saw me and stopped.

Everyone stopped breathing.

Her eyes — same green as Damian, same green as Maya — went from my hair to my dress to my pearls to my face.

"Elara," she said.

Not question. Statement.

Damian stepped forward. "Mother. You came."

"Of course I came. You said my daughter-in-law returned from dead. I had to see miracle." Her voice was dry, like paper. She walked closer, cane thudding. "Elara, dear. You look... different."

"Hello, Mrs. Blackwood," I said. Voice shaking. "I mean — Mother."

She smiled, but smile didn't reach eyes. "You used to call me Evelyn. Always Evelyn. You said Mother was too... what was word?"

"Too heavy," Mrs. Finch whispered from behind.

"Too heavy, yes. Too heavy for a woman who pays bills." Evelyn circled me, cane thudding around me. "Blue dress still fits. Interesting. You gained weight after death? Or before?"

"I —"

"And scar?" She pointed cane at my eyebrow, where concealer covered scar. "Where is scar? Elara got scar last Christmas, falling from horse. I sent flowers. Big scar. You covered it?"

Damian cut in fast: "Makeup, Mother. She covers for tea —"

"I want to see scar." Evelyn's voice was steel.

I had to. I wiped makeup with sleeve of blue dress, blue dress with pearls that didn't belong to me.

Scar showed — thin white line over right eyebrow.

Evelyn stared. Then she laughed, short laugh.

"Wrong side."

Blood left my face.

"What?"

"Elara's scar was over left eyebrow. I remember. I was there when horse threw her. Left. Not right. Yours is right. Mirror image."

Pantry. Baby. Attic. Locker 7. All spun.

Damian looked at my scar too, then at his mother, panic for first time.

"Mother, it's — it's healed —"

"Don't lie to me, Damian. I know my son. I know when he buys a girl to play wife because he needs my signature for merger." She turned to me. "How much is he paying you, dear?"

"$90,000," I whispered before I could lie.

"Cheap. Elara was worth $2,000,000 to make her disappear. You are cheap replacement."

Two million. Same number as account.

She knew about $2,000,000.

From upstairs, at exactly 10:03 AM, baby cried.

Loud, clear, angry cry that echoed down marble stairs.

Maya.

Evelyn Blackwood's head snapped up.

"What was that?"

Mrs. Finch went white.

Damian went white.

I stood in blue dress with pearls and scar on wrong side and said the only thing that could save us all.

"That is your granddaughter."

Silence.

Then Evelyn Blackwood did something no one expected.

She dropped cane.

And whispered: "Elara told me she aborted."