Chapter 5 – Trap
2071 Words
AUTHOR
The London townhouse sat in silence, its marble floors cold under Catherine Lawson's heels. She stood at the window of the study, watching rain streak down the glass, her reflection a ghost layered over the darkening street.
Behind her, Richard Lawson poured himself a drink. The ice clinked against crystal. He took his time, letting the silence stretch.
"The security team confirmed it," he said finally, his voice unhurried. "Steele entered her gallery this morning. Stayed about twenty minutes. Left an envelope with her."
Catherine did not turn. "Did they hear anything?"
"Glass windows, distance. But the man on the ground saw her face after he left." A pause. "She looked unsettled."
She finally faced him. Richard sat in his leather chair, glass in hand, looking for all the world like a man discussing the weather. But she knew him. She saw the calculation behind his eyes.
"You are not worried," she said.
"Should I be?"
"He is getting close to her."
Richard smiled. It was a thin, bloodless expression. "That was the plan, Catherine."
She crossed her arms. The silk of her blouse rustled. "You told me we were letting him take the gallery. Not befriend her."
"He cannot take what she will not give. And she will not give it unless she trusts him." Richard took a slow sip. "Steele is methodical. He does not move until he is certain. If he is spending time with her, it means he is laying groundwork."
Catherine's lips curved. Not quite a smile. Something sharper. "Good. Let him get comfortable. The more he trusts her, the harder he will fall when we pull the rug."
Richard raised his glass to her. "That is my wife."
She inclined her head, accepting the compliment like it was her due.
He pulled out his phone and scrolled to a photograph—Gemma's gallery, the morning light cutting through the windows, Gemma's silhouette behind the glass. He studied it for a moment, something cold and satisfied in his expression.
"The safe," he said. "You are certain Rose kept documents?"
"She kept everything. Journals, financial records, letters." Catherine's voice was flat. "I told you years ago to destroy them."
"And I did. I removed what mattered the night after Rose's funeral. What is left in that safe is old business papers. Dead ends." He set the phone down. "Rose was smart, but she was not a ghost. She kept her secrets in one place. That is the one we emptied."
Catherine moved away from the window, crossing to the decanter to pour herself a glass. She moved with the ease of a woman who owned every room she entered. The decanter clinked softly against the crystal as she poured.
The amber liquid caught the firelight, warm and rich. She lifted it to her lips without pause.
"And Gemma? Of course, she has been sitting on that safe for five years, too afraid to open it. She will not start now."
"She might. Steele is persuasive."
Catherine laughed—a low, dismissive sound. "Gemma? Persuade Gemma? She is too busy playing artist in her little gallery, pretending she is above all of this." She took a sip, savoring it. "Rose filled her head with nonsense about integrity and doing the right thing. Made her soft. She does not have the stomach for what is in that safe."
Richard watched her with something like approval. "You sound very sure."
"I know my daughter." She said the words without warmth, without weight. A statement of fact. "She will hesitate. She will tell herself she needs more time. She will wait until it is too late."
"So we let Steele open it and find nothing," Catherine said.
Richard's smile returned. "We let him open it and find old records that lead nowhere. He will think he has ammunition. He will use it to move against us. And when he does—" He set his glass down, the crystal clicking against the desk. "The gallery is in Gemma's name. Steele takes it, Gemma loses it. Then we sue her for the loss. Family inheritance mismanaged. We cut her out of everything Rose left her."
Catherine's smile sharpened. "And Steele?"
"Steele will have exposed his hand. We will take back the gallery through the courts, and he will be left with nothing." Richard walked to the window, looking out at the rain. "Our contacts will handle the rest."
At the mention of "contacts," Catherine's expression did not flicker. She knew Richard had people—investors, fixers, men who operated in shadows. She did not care who they were. They served their purpose, just like everyone else.
A knock came at the study door. Catherine straightened, her mask in place.
"Come," Richard said.
A man entered—slim, dark suited, carrying a tablet. He nodded once. "Our man on the ground sent a photograph to Steele's phone earlier. Untraceable."
"And his reaction?" Richard asked.
"He deployed the security team immediately. He is engaged."
Richard smiled. "He is protecting her already. Good."
"Also," the man continued, "the team in New York has eyes on the gallery. Steele's security arrived an hour ago. Two men, discreet."
Richard turned to Catherine. "You see? He is exactly where we want him."
She lifted her glass in a mock toast. "Predictable. They always are."
The man with the tablet spoke again. "There is something else. Gemma Lawson went to her grandmother's room last night. Our man saw her enter the closet where the safe is kept. She touched the lock, then left. She did not open it."
Catherine's smile did not waver. "What did I tell you? Weak."
Richard's expression shifted—calculation sharpening. "She hesitated. We need her to open it. If she does not, Steele has no reason to move. And if he does not move, the trap does not spring."
Catherine set her glass down with a soft click. "Then we give her a reason."
Richard looked at her. "You have something in mind?"
She walked to his desk, her heels clicking against the marble. "She has always been curious. Always wanted to know why her precious grandmother kept secrets. We give her a taste. Something small. Something that makes her think she is close to the truth."
She pulled open the drawer herself, retrieving the old photograph—Richard and Marcus Steele's father, standing together before everything fell apart.
"Send this to her," she said, handing it to the man. "No message. Just the photograph. Let her wonder. Let her dig. She will open that safe within the week."
The man took it, glancing at Richard. Richard nodded once.
Catherine watched the photograph leave the room. Her expression was calm, satisfied.
"When Gemma opens that safe and finds nothing, she will be devastated," she said. "She will have wasted her one chance at leverage. And when Steele takes the gallery, she will have no one to blame but herself."
Richard studied her for a long moment. Then he smiled—slow, approving.
Catherine returned the smile. It did not reach her eyes.
She walked to the mirror above the mantel and checked her reflection. Her hair was pinned perfectly. Her blouse was pressed. Her face was exactly what it needed to be.
She smoothed a single strand into place, adjusted her collar, and walked out of the room without looking back.
The mirror reflected only empty space.
The clock ticked. The fire crackled. He did not turn when the door closed behind her.
The room settled into silence. He let it. There was nothing left to say. There never was.
He picked up his glass and finished the drink. Cold. The way he liked it.
- Writer
- chap_listContents
- likeADD