Aurora poured a generous glass with movements that were precise, rehearsed, her body angled to shield the action. She set it directly in front of my hand, positioning it like a weapon.
“Drink,” she said softly. “It’s a pinot. Your favorite. It’ll calm your nerves. You’re shaking, Emma.”
I looked down at my hand and made sure it trembled.
“I just…” I stammered, lifting my eyes to hers with practiced pleading. “I’ve been having a hard time, Aurora. I don’t know what’s real anymore. I feel like I’m losing time.”
It was the exact line she wanted. The cue in the script she’d written with years of sabotage.
A flash of triumph crossed her face, quick and sharp as a scalpel. Her fingers brushed my cheek, cold.
“I know, honey,” she said. “That’s why we’re here. We’re going to take care of you.”
Chad stared at the wall like it might open and swallow him.
Dr. Vance leaned forward, eyes fixed on the glass.
I lifted it.
“To family,” I murmured.
“To family,” Aurora echoed, smiling.
I drank.
To them, it was the end of my freedom.
To me, it was sugar water and grape juice.
Part 3
Three minutes passed.
Aurora checked her watch, subtle but unmistakable. This was when I was supposed to slur, slump, disappear. Her smile started to tighten at the edges, like a mask that didn’t fit as well as she expected.
I set the glass down carefully and blinked, slow.
Aurora’s eyes narrowed. “How are you feeling?”
I gave her what she wanted, just not the way she wanted it. I let my gaze drift, unfocused, like the room was swimming. I pressed my fingertips to my temple.
“I feel… strange,” I whispered.
Relief flooded her face so fast it was almost comical. She stood abruptly, chair scraping. “Oh God,” she said, voice rising on cue. “She’s crashing. Dr. Vance, do something.”
The kitchen door burst open.
Two men in dark scrubs rushed in, moving with the efficiency of people who’d done this before. One held restraints. The other carried something folded that looked like a straightjacket.
My stomach flipped—not from fear for myself, but from the realization that Aurora had ordered this like takeout. Like my autonomy was a problem she’d hired someone to remove.
“Secure her arms,” Vance ordered, reaching for a syringe. “She’ll resist.”
Chad covered his face with one hand, shoulders shaking.
Aurora grabbed my shoulders. Her nails dug into my sweater. “I’m sorry, Emma,” she hissed, the softness gone now that the performance had begun. “It’s for your own good.”
I stood up.
The movement was calm, controlled, nothing like the frantic thrashing Aurora had described in her emails. The wine glass tipped and shattered against the floor, sticky liquid splashing onto Aurora’s white pants.
The room froze.
The men hesitated, startled by the fact that I was upright, steady, looking at them like they were the ones who’d made a mistake.
“Get away from me,” I said, voice low and even.
“She’s manic!” Aurora shrieked, too loud, too fast. “She’s dangerous!”
“The only dangerous person here is you,” I replied.
I reached into my purse and placed a small black unit on the table. The satellite hotspot. A green light blinked steady.
Then I set my spare phone beside it, screen facing up. A live video feed played—our dining room, our faces, the men in scrubs, Dr. Vance with a syringe in his hand.
“We’re live,” I said. “Streaming to my lawyer and the county sheriff.”
Dr. Vance went pale. The syringe slipped slightly in his grip.
Aurora’s mouth opened, then closed, like a fish yanked out of water. “You’re bluffing,” she hissed.
I slid my lab paperwork onto the table, right beside the decanter.
Timestamped toxicology report.
Psychiatric clearance.
“Clean,” I said. “No drugs. No alcohol. Fully oriented.”
I turned to Vance. “Touch me and you lose your license forever. Whatever Aurora promised you isn’t worth prison.”