---- Chapter 14 The mansion was no longer a home; it was a mausoleum. Silent, cold, and meticulously clean, it was a place where Blake wandered through the wreckage of his life, a ghost haunting the scenes of his own crimes. One day, driven by an impulse he didn't understand, he found himself standing outside the small servant's room where Ellen had spent her last days in his house. He hadn't been inside since he'd discovered she was gone. The staff had been under strict orders to leave it untouched. His hand trembled as he reached for the doorknob. Pushing the door open felt like breaking into a sacred tomb. The room was just as she had left it. A thin layer of dust covered the simple furniture. The air was still and smelled faintly of her, a clean, simple scent that hit him like a physical blow. Her single suitcase was at the foot of the bed. He had never seen it before. He had never bothered to look. He fell to his knees beside it, his fingers fumbling with the latches. He threw it open, a desperate hope for... he didn't even know what. A letter? A sign? Something that would explain the inexplicable. Inside, there were only a few simple, worn pieces of clothing. ---- Things from her life before him. There was nothing of the opulent world he had given her. He ran his hands through the contents, his desperation growing. And then his fingers brushed against something hard, tucked into a hidden pocket in the lining. He pulled it out. It was a small, spiral-bound notebook and an old, dead cell phone. His heart stopped, then began to hammer against his ribs with a frantic, painful rhythm. He opened the notebook. It was her diary. Her familiar, elegant handwriting filled the pages. It was like hearing her voice after five years of silence. He started to read, his hands shaking so badly he could barely hold the book steady. The early entries were full of love and happiness. October 12th: Blake won the championship today! I've never been so proud. The way he looks at me when he's on that podium... it's like I'm the only person in the world. April 5th: The crash. | was so scared. But even in the hospital, all he could talk about was making sure | was okay. He said he'd do it all again. | cried. | don't think I'll ever love anyone as much as | love this man. Blake choked on a sob, the words a bittersweet poison. He ---- kept reading, turning the pages, watching their love story unfold, and then, watching it die. June 22nd: A woman named Celesta was at the gala tonight. There's something about her... | don't trust her. But Blake seems completely captivated. It made me feel... cold August 14th: Blake was angry with me today. For the first time. He said | wasn't being supportive of his spiritual journey. He said | was holding him back with my 'common' mindset. It hurt more than | can say. September 3rd: We were in bed last night. He kissed me, but he whispered her name. Celesta. | pretended to be asleep. | think my heart just broke. The entries grew shorter, more painful. They chronicled her descent into hell. The humiliation. The cruelty. The death of her father. November 9th: Dad is gone. He died right in front of me. And Blake... Blake just stood there. He watched it happen. He let it happen. The man | married is gone. There is only a monster left. He offered me money. God, the money. As if that could fix it. November 10th: I'm going to leave him. | have to. | don't know how, but | will. | hate him. | hate him. | hate him. The diary ended there. Blake stared at the last entry, the words "I hate him" repeated ---- like a curse. His tears fell onto the page, smudging the ink, mingling with the tearstains Ellen had left behind. A strangled, guttural sound was ripped from his chest. The pain was physical, a crushing weight that was going to kill him. He clutched the diary to his chest, rocking back and forth on the floor, a man utterly destroyed by the truth. Then he looked at the phone. He roared for his assistant, his voice a raw, broken command. "Get this working!" he screamed, thrusting the phone at the terrified man. "I don't care what it takes. Rebuild it from scratch if you have to. | want every piece of data, every photo, every message, every recording. | want to know everything." The wait was the purest form of torture. For three days, Blake didn't move from that room. He sat on the floor, clutching the diary, rereading Ellen's words until they were burned into his memory. Finally, his assistant returned. He carried a new phone and a small, portable hard drive. "We recovered everything, sir," he said quietly. Blake snatched the hard drive, his hands trembling. He plugged it into his laptop. There were folders for photos, texts, and audio recordings. He clicked on the audio folder. There was only one file. It was dated the day before his father-in- law's death. He clicked play. ---- He heard the sound of a door closing, then Celesta's voice, clear and sharp. She was talking to someone on the phone. "Don't worry," she was saying, a smug, self-satisfied laugh in her voice. "He's completely under my control. The man is a fool. Rich and powerful, but so emotionally needy. He actually believes I'm some kind of ancient princess." She laughed again. "His wife? Oh, the little mouse from the working class? She's a pathetic creature. But she's the key. The more | hurt her, the more he feels he needs me to 'cleanse' the negativity. It's perfect." The voice on the other end murmured something Blake couldn't hear. "Her father is coming tomorrow," Celesta continued. "The old man is apparently very religious. It will be the perfect opportunity to create some real drama. I'm going to break him. I'm going to humiliate him so completely that Blake will have no choice but to side with me. By the time I'm done, Blake will be eating out of the palm of my hand, and the little mouse will be crushed. Just watch. It'll be as easy as stepping on an ant. The recording ended. For a long moment, Blake was completely still. The world had gone silent. He felt nothing. And then, it was as if a bomb had detonated in his soul. ---- The diary had shown him Ellen's pain. The recording showed him the architect of that pain. And his own role in it all was suddenly, blindingly, horrifyingly clear. He hadn't just been a fool. He had been a weapon. Celesta had loaded the gun, but he had been the one to pull the trigger. Again and again and again. He howled. It was a sound of pure, primal agony, the sound of a soul being ripped in two. He threw the laptop against the wall, smashing it to pieces. He tore at his clothes, his hair, his own skin, as if he could claw the poison of the truth out of his body. He collapsed onto the floor, choking, gasping, a stream of blood trickling from his lips where he'd bitten through his own flesh. He finally understood. He hadn't just lost her. He hadn't just failed her. He had destroyed her. His arrogance, his weakness, his cold, cruel heart-those were the true murder weapons. And in the ruins of his life, consumed by a fire of his own making, a new, terrible purpose was born. He got to his feet, his body shaking, his eyes burning with a terrifying, righteous fire. He picked up the hard drive containing the recording. And he started walking toward the basement.