ELENA AND THE BILLIONAIRE

Chapter Five: The Murder Revealed

Elena stood at her office window long after the last employee had gone home. The lights of Manhattan flickered below, rivers of headlights streaming down avenues. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, her reflection staring back at her with tired eyes, the same dark hair framing her face that everyone praised for its sharp elegance.

But she wasn’t seeing the skyline. She was seeing Catherine.

I killed her. I took her place.

The words had slipped once from her mother’s lips years ago, half muttered, half sobbed in the same fragile hour when Catherine thought no one was listening. Elena had chalked it up to exhaustion at the time. To a nurse’s mind unraveling after too many long shifts, too many heartbreaks.

But after last night, after hearing Catherine’s whispers about Priscilla, about blood and sins and shadows, the memory clawed its way back into Elena’s head with teeth sharper than before.

She closed her eyes and whispered to herself. “Did she mean it? Did she actually mean it?”

Her heart thumped painfully. If Catherine had killed Priscilla… then everything Elena thought she knew about her family was nothing but ash.

The elevator dinged in the distance. A janitor’s cart squeaked across the marble. She gathered her things quickly, stuffing files into her leather bag and snapping it shut. She couldn’t think about this here—not at the bank, not surrounded by polished glass walls and colleagues who would read her every c***k like wolves scenting blood.

Back at the Morgan home, the silence of the house swallowed her as she stepped inside. Michael’s laughter echoed faintly from upstairs—he was probably playing video games again, carefree as ever. David’s voice hummed behind the study door, steady and even, likely on another late-night call.

And Catherine… Catherine was in the master bedroom, the door closed, a light still glowing beneath it.

Elena’s chest tightened.

If you really killed her, if you destroyed this family for your own sake, I’ll never forgive you.

She climbed the stairs carefully, her heels dangling from her hand, each step deliberate. She didn’t want Michael to hear her. She didn’t want David to look up from his desk and ask why she was sneaking around.

She wanted answers.

Her mother’s closet was always neat, lined with carefully hung suits, rows of shoes polished and ordered, the faint scent of lavender sachets lingering in the air. Elena slipped inside, leaving the main bedroom light off, the dim glow from the bathroom night-light casting shadows across the racks of clothes.

For a moment she just stood there, her pulse thrumming in her ears.

What am I doing? she thought. What if I find nothing? What if I find everything?

Her gaze landed on the old jewelry box sitting untouched on the top shelf. Its lacquered wood gleamed faintly in the shadows. Catherine never wore much jewelry; she always claimed it got in the way at the hospital. Elena had seen the box a hundred times, but she had never once seen her mother open it.

She reached up, dragging it down carefully, her breath caught in her throat.

It was heavier than she expected.

She set it on the floor, kneeling beside it. Her fingers hovered over the clasp. “God,” she whispered. “Please don’t let this be what I think it is.”

She clicked it open.

The top tray held necklaces, a few pairs of earrings, a tarnished watch. All of it ordinary. All of it untouched for years.

But when she lifted the tray, her breath stopped.

Beneath it lay a diary, its leather cover cracked and worn, the edges frayed from years of handling. Catherine’s handwriting sprawled across the first page in sharp black ink: For my eyes only.

Elena’s hands trembled. Her chest rose and fell in uneven bursts. She shouldn’t read it. It wasn’t hers.

But she had to.

She flipped the pages, each turn heavier than the last.

“I can’t carry this anymore,” one entry read. “Every day I wear the mask of wife, of mother, of nurse. Every night I peel it off and stare at the stranger in the mirror—the woman who took what wasn’t hers. The woman who killed to survive.”

Elena’s stomach dropped. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the gasp threatening to escape.

Killed. The word burned.

She read on, eyes scanning desperately.

“Priscilla’s cough grew worse that winter. David was helpless. The doctors said it would pass, but I knew the truth—she was frail, too frail to last. And I—selfish, weak, desperate—I wanted her life. I wanted her home. I wanted her husband. I measured the drops carefully. Just enough to quiet suspicion. Just enough to make it seem natural. Day after day. Until one day, she was gone.”

Elena’s vision blurred. No… no, God, no.

Her mother’s neat handwriting filled page after page, charting “measurements” like medical records: milligrams, dosages, mixtures. Notes of guilt and panic followed each line: Did I give too much? Did I smile too wide at David? Did I let her see the truth in my eyes before she closed hers forever?

Elena’s chest heaved. She wanted to slam the book shut, to throw it across the closet, but her hands wouldn’t obey. They clung to it, hungry for the truth she both needed and dreaded.

Another entry chilled her deeper:

“I watch Michael sleep, innocent, untouched by the sin that made his life possible. I tell myself it was worth it—for him, for Elena, for this family. But no prayer wipes the blood from my hands. No devotion scrubs away the memory of her breath stopping.”

Elena’s head spun. She whispered to herself, “You murdered her. You murdered Michael’s mother. And you’ve been living in this house like nothing happened.”

Her throat burned with rage and grief. She could almost hear Catherine’s whispers echoing from the bathroom, begging forgiveness, muttering to the mirror. It all made sense now. The tremors. The shadows. The sleepless nights.

It was true.

The door creaked suddenly. Elena snapped her head up, slamming the diary shut and clutching it to her chest.

“Elena?” Catherine’s voice floated into the bedroom, tired but sharp.

Elena’s pulse hammered. She shoved the diary back under the jewelry tray, snapping the box shut just as the closet door eased open.

Catherine’s face appeared in the gap, pale and weary. “What are you doing in here?”

Elena forced a breath, her heart racing so fast she thought it might explode. “Looking for—” She fumbled for words. “—a scarf. For work.”

Catherine studied her, eyes narrowing just slightly. Then she smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “You know you could have asked. You don’t need to sneak.”

Elena rose to her feet, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt, hiding the tremor in her hands. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

Catherine’s gaze lingered. “You didn’t,” she said softly. Then, almost as if speaking to herself, she added, “You never do.”

Elena froze at the words, their double edge cutting her deeper than Catherine could know.

She forced a smile. “Goodnight, Mom.”

Catherine reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Elena’s face. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Her touch burned.

As Elena left the bedroom, her legs nearly gave out beneath her. She made it back to her room, shut the door, and collapsed against it, her chest heaving.

The diary’s words clawed at her mind: I measured the drops carefully. Just enough. Until one day, she was gone.

Tears welled in her eyes, hot and merciless. She whispered into the dark, “You’re a murderer. You murdered her. And I’ll never forgive you.”

But even as the words left her lips, another voice inside her—softer, weaker—asked: What if she thought she was saving them? What if she thought she was saving us?

Elena buried her face in her hands. The truth was out, but it brought no relief. Only a deeper fracture between mother and daughter, one that could never be bridged.

And as the night stretched on, Elena realized she would never look at Catherine Harry the same way again.

Never.