Chapter 6 - The ConfrontationI didn't move an inch. I stayed leaning against the kitchen island, watching her approach across the hardwood floors I had painstakingly laid out with my own hands.
"You’re trespassing, Melissa," I said evenly. "And the police are already on their way."
A bitter, unhinged laugh escaped her lips. She pulled her hand out of her purse. Clutched in her fingers was a heavy glass vial filled with a clear, viscous liquid—the exact same compound that had put Grant in the hospital ICU.
"The police won't get here in time to save you, Mark," Melissa sneered, stepping closer. "You just had to dig, didn't you? You couldn't just accept help. You had to play the bitter, suspicious widower. Do you have any idea how hard I worked to set up this family? I secured the foundation. I took care of Rachel when she started asking too many questions about our family trust fund."
My eyes narrowed. "So you admit it. You killed Rachel."
"She was weak!" Melissa hissed, her voice rising in pitch, filled with venom. "She wanted to walk away from everything, take our inheritance, and leave me with nothing after I built Mercer Consulting from the ground up! She deserved what she got. Just like Grant deserved what he got yesterday for being a blind, useless obstacle. And just like Ethan is going to need a new mother—one who actually knows how to manage a real empire."
"You're insane," I whispered.
"I'm pragmatic," Melissa corrected, taking another step forward, raising the vial toward my face. "And now, you're going to drink this, just like Grant did. We'll stage it as an accidental overdose in your brand-new kitchen. An grieving father overcome by grief, taking his own life. The courts will award me full custody of Ethan within the hour."
She lunged forward, aiming to splash the liquid directly across my face.
It was the moment I had anticipated.
Instead of dodging backward, I stepped directly into her swing, catching her wrist with iron force and twisting it upward.
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Melissa shrieked in pain as the glass vial slipped from her fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor. The pungent, chemical odor of the scopolamine solution filled the air as it pooled across the boards.
She fought like a cornered animal, scratching at my face and screaming curses, but years of rebuilding houses, carrying heavy timber, and surviving the crushing weight of grief had left me with a strength she hadn't accounted for. I pinned her arms behind her back, forcing her down against the kitchen counter just as the front door burst open with a deafening crash.
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