The Price of Her Silence

Chapter 4

A. A. L. The three letters felt like they were burning her palm, a puzzle wrapped in mystery, a key without a lock. Selena stared at the slip of paper under the dim glow of the bedside lamp, her heart pounding with a wild, erratic rhythm. This was more than just initials; it was a whisper from the past, an echo of the night that had stolen everything from her. With trembling fingers, she folded the paper as small as possible, turning it into a dense, fragile square. She couldn't throw it away, but she couldn't keep it in a visible place either. Her eyes scanned the luxurious room, searching for a hiding spot. Under the mattress? Too cliché. Inside a book? Too easily found.

Her gaze fell on the denim jacket lying on the chair. Clothes from her old life, now feeling like an artifact from a lost civilization. Carefully, she approached and rediscovered the small tear in the inner pocket lining. She slipped the paper back inside, pushing it deep into the stitching until it was no longer palpable. The secret returned to its origin, concealed behind the worn fabric, waiting.

The door opened silently. Ophelia Graves stood there, her posture rigid as an ice sculpture.

"Mrs. Attwood," she greeted, her voice dry. "Mr. Attwood requests your presence at the Attwood Group headquarters in thirty minutes. The car is waiting."

It wasn't a request, but a command. Selena merely nodded, a chill crawling up her spine. Headquarters. The true lion's den.

Twenty minutes later, she sat in the back of a black sedan that glided silently through the London traffic. The platinum ring on her finger felt cold and alien, a glaring marker of ownership. The Attwood Group building loomed ahead, a tower of glass and steel that seemed to pierce the gray sky, a monument of power built on ambition and money. Inside, every surface gleamed, every corner was sharp, and the air felt sterile and pressurized.

A young woman with sharp bob-cut platinum blonde hair and blood-red lipstick greeted her in the private lobby. Her eyes, ice blue, scanned Selena from head to toe with rapid, judgmental scorn.

"Ms. Ward," she greeted, her voice sweet yet laced with venom. "I am Nadia Quinn, Mr. Attwood's executive assistant. He is waiting for you."

Deliberate. She had deliberately called her "Ms. Ward." A subtle assertion that in this world, in Callum's kingdom, Selena was merely an outsider.

"It's *Mrs. Attwood*," Selena countered, her voice firmer than she expected.

Nadia's smile tightened for a split second. "Of course. My apologies. This way, *Mrs. Attwood*."

Callum's office was on the top floor, a vast room with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the entire city. Callum was not seated behind his massive mahogany desk. He stood by the window, gazing out, his back facing the door. Beside him stood another man, in his late thirties, with light brown hair and a perfectly tailored suit. His face was affable, but his eyes were sharp and intelligent.

"You're here," Callum said without turning. "Nadia, you may leave."

"Certainly, Mr. Attwood," Nadia replied, shooting Selena one last glance before closing the door with a nearly inaudible *click*.

"Selena, this is Lucien Cross, our Director of Finance," Callum said, finally turning around. His eyes were as cold as polished steel. "Lucien, this is my wife, Selena."

Lucien stepped forward, extending a hand. His grip was strong and brief. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Attwood. We were all surprised, and delighted, by your marriage to Mr. Attwood."

"Thank you, Mr. Cross," Selena replied, feeling the lie coat her tongue like oil.

"I called you here to discuss a few matters," Callum stated, walking toward the long conference table that dominated the room. "Given the... sudden circumstances of our marriage, our PR team needs to prepare a narrative. A cohesive story for the press and the board of directors."

"A narrative?" Selena repeated cynically. "You mean a lie?"

Lucien cleared his throat slightly, looking uncomfortable. Callum ignored Selena's remark.

"We met at an art gallery six months ago," Callum continued, his voice flat, as if reciting a financial report. "Our relationship developed privately and away from the media spotlight. You are a freelance artist, which is why no one recognized you. Our marriage was expedited due to... personal reasons. Is that sufficiently clear?"

"Perfectly clear. I have to be a ghost who suddenly appeared and won the heart of a cold CEO," Selena hissed.

"Exactly," Callum retorted, his eyes glinting dangerously. "And you will play your part perfectly."

Lucien placed a tablet on the table. "We have prepared some talking points and answers for potential media questions, Mrs. Attwood. If you would like to review them..."

"That won't be necessary, Lucien," Callum interrupted. He stared intently at Selena, a thin, cruel smile touching his lips. "I have a more efficient way to ensure our narrative is synchronized. A way to ensure... honesty."

An unpleasant feeling began to creep into Selena's stomach. "What do you mean?"

Callum nodded toward another door in the corner of his office. The door opened, and a flat-faced man with frameless glasses entered, pushing a small trolley containing strange equipment. A machine with cables and a small monitor.

Selena's heart stopped for a moment. She recognized it from movies. A polygraph. A lie detector.

"You must be joking," she whispered, her voice trembling with sudden fury.

"I never joke when it concerns my business or my family, Selena," Callum said, his tone deadly. "This is merely a formality. To ensure we are on the same page. Consider it a PR practice session."

"Practice?" Selena laughed, the sound dry and full of rage. "This isn't practice! This is an interrogation! You have no right!"

"I have every right," Callum countered, stepping closer until Selena could feel the cold aura radiating from him. "You signed the contract. You are my wife. My asset. And I need to ensure my assets don't blow up in my face. Sit down."

Lucien and the technician averted their gazes, pretending to be busy with something else, allowing the clash of wills to unfold.

"No," Selena refused, her chin raised in defiance. "I won't do it."

"Then I'll call Gideon Hale right now," Callum hissed, his eyes narrowed. "And we will proceed with the other 'option.' The one involving a jail cell and your unfortunate sister's fate. The choice is yours, as always."

The threat, as always, was effective. Clara. Always Clara. The hot surge of anger in Selena's chest instantly extinguished, replaced by the coldness of despair. With stiff movements, she walked to the chair prepared beside the machine and sat down. Every muscle in her body tensed with humiliation.

The technician worked quickly and without emotion, attaching sensors to her fingers, a cuff to her arm, and two straps across her chest. It felt like she was being prepared for an execution.

"I will ask a few baseline questions for calibration," the technician said in a monotonous voice. "Answer with 'yes' or 'no.' Is your name Selena Ward?" "Yes." "Are we in London?" "Yes."

The needle on the machine moved, tracing calm lines across the paper.

Callum took over. He sat across from Selena, staring at her without blinking. Lucien stood near the window, a silent witness.

"Let us begin," Callum said, his voice low. "Did you meet Adrian Attwood more than a year ago?"

Selena swallowed. "Yes."

"Were you involved in a romantic relationship with him?"

Her heart hammered. Their relationship was complicated, full of gratitude and a strange friendship. But romantic? No. "No."

The needle jumped slightly, then settled back down.

"Did you know that Adrian stood to inherit the majority of the Attwood fortune?"

"No. I didn't care about that."

"Answer 'yes' or 'no,' Selena," Callum commanded, his voice sharp.

"...Yes."

"On the night of his death," Callum continued, every word feeling like a drop of acid, "did you argue with him?"

"No." A lie. They had debated, though it wasn't a fierce argument. Adrian had seemed desperate, pleading with her to do something she didn't understand. The needle spiked wildly, drawing a sharp peak across the paper.

Callum's eyes narrowed. He saw it. He saw the lie recorded in black ink.

"Last question," he said, leaning forward. The intensity of his gaze felt like a physical weight, pressing down on Selena's chest until she found it difficult to breathe. The technician stared at his monitor, his eyebrows slightly raised. The air in the room felt heavy and charged with static.

"Selena Ward," Callum stated, his voice barely a whisper yet echoing in the choking silence. "Did you kill my brother?"