Chapter 16 The Wager
I wish I could hire a professional photographer, or videographer, or just a really good artist right now. Anyone who can take a perfect picture of the look Beatrice has on her face. I would pay a handsome amount of money just to have a picture of this moment, frame it, and hang it somewhere I can look at every day.
I look at one of the CCTV cameras at the corner of the lab, and I make a mental note to ask the security for a clip of this whole moment.
For now, I just watch Beatrice Wolfe as she stands paralyzed, her eyes fixed on the green "Identical" text on the laboratory monitor as if she’s waiting for the screen to malfunction or break into tiny pieces. The lavender silk of her suit jacket ripples with the frantic pace of her breathing. She looks smaller now, the sharp arrogance that usually defines her posture wilting under the undeniable evidence before her. I try to think of anything she can say to rebut this evidence, but nothing comes to mind.
Even a master manipulator like her can’t say anything right now.
And the ’manipulated’, which are the other members of the Wolfe family around us, are awfully quiet too. Around us, the cold, clinical air of the Wolfe estate’s private lab feels better on my skin than it did a few minutes ago. The scent of ozone and the lingering, metallic tang of my amber medicine hang in the space between us.
Beatrice’s gaze darts toward the heavy oak double doors. She doesn’t look like a prestigious university graduate right now. She looks like a thief caught with her hand in the silver chest.
"I... I have a migraine," Beatrice mutters, her voice barely a thread. She starts to turn and walk towards the door. "The stress of the Old Madam’s collapse... I need to lie down."
"Going somewhere, Beatrice?"
My voice sounds louder in the silence of the lab, but I don’t mind it. I actually want to jump on the table and scream ’’I’m right, and you’re wrong!’ on top of my lungs. But I have to coordinate myself better. I step around the stainless steel workbench, my lab coat swishing against my legs.
"We had a wager," I say, my tone as steady as the hands that just synthesized a world-class pharmaceutical. "A public apology. And a slap. You were quite vocal about the terms when you thought I was a fraud. You practically sang them from the rooftops."
Beatrice stops, her back stiff. She doesn’t turn around. I see Alistair’s father and his mother, Eleanor, exchange a look of profound discomfort. The cousins, in-laws, and maids who were chanting for me to crawl out of the house ten minutes ago are now looking at Beatrice with a new kind of scrutiny.
"I thought the Wolfe family was one known for keeping its promises," I goad, letting a tiny, sharp smile touch my lips. "Or was I mistaken? Is the Wolfe honor only applicable when it suits the bank balance?"
The Old Madam, Celia, narrows her eyes. She’s propped up in a chair near the centrifuges, her hand gripping her cane. Beatrice’s shoulders give a violent hitch. She turns back to face the room, her face a blotchy, mottled mess of desperation. She looks at the faces of her kin and sees no refuge.
Suddenly, Beatrice’s eyes roll back in her head. She lets out a soft, theatrical moan and her knees buckle. She hits the floor with a dull thud, her lavender silk spilling out across the tile like a bruised flower.
"Beatrice!" Eleanor shrieks, rushing forward.
The room instantly descends into a controlled panic. The family members swarm her, Richard and Arthur Sr. reaching down to lift her limp form. They’re already talking about carrying her back to her wing, calling for a different doctor, anything to move her away from the spotlight of her own failure.
I don’t move. I stay exactly where I am, watching the way Beatrice’s eyelids are shaking with a frantic, rhythmic movement. She’s not pale. Her breathing is too shallow, too controlled. I’ve spent years watching people in actual distress, and Beatrice Wolfe is currently putting on a performance that wouldn’t even pass in a middle school play.
Fine. If she wants to play, let’s play.
"Stop," I say.
The family ignores me. Richard has his arms under her shoulders, his face set in a grim mask of duty.
"Move aside, Richard," I say, my voice gaining a sharp, clinical edge. "I’m the only one here who knows what’s actually happening to her. Look at the way her jaw is clenched. Look at the muscle tension in her neck. This isn’t a simple fainting spell. It’s something much worse."
I walk over to the group. They part for me, mostly out of a lingering shock from my success in the lab. I look down at Beatrice. I can see the tiny, rapid movements of her eyes under her lids. She’s terrified.
"It’s what I feared," I say in a low tone, the kind doctors use when they’re delivering bad news. I try to sound as concerned as possible. I look up at the Old Madam. "She’s suffering from a surge of rage to the heart. It’s a rare, acute reaction to extreme psychological stress. If we don’t treat it in the next sixty seconds, her blood pressure will spike, and she’ll be at a life-threatening risk of a stroke."
I reach into the pocket of my lab coat and pull out a fresh, long needle. I let the light from the overhead LEDs catch the silver tip.
"I need to administer a direct injection into the carotid artery to stabilize the flow," I announce, stepping closer to Beatrice’s neck. "It’s a very painful procedure, and the needle is quite thick, but it’s the only way to save her brain from the pressure."
I bend down, the scent of Beatrice’s expensive, floral perfume filling my nose. I position the needle just an inch from her skin.
"On the count of three," I whisper. "One. Two—"
Beatrice’s eyes snap open. She gasps, her hands flying up to push my arm away with a strength that is remarkably robust for a woman who was supposedly unconscious five seconds ago. She scrambles backward on her elbows, her face pale with genuine terror this time.
"I’m fine!" she screams, her voice hitting a glass-shattering register. "I’m perfectly fine! Don’t you dare touch me with that thing!"
The room falls into a heavy, awkward silence. Richard drops her arms, and she falls the remaining inch to the floor with a soft whump. The cousins look away, some of them coughing into their hands to hide their smirks. Beatrice has just exposed her own charade, and she’s done it in the most humiliating way possible.
I tuck the needle back into my pocket. "A miracle cure. It’s amazing what the sight of a syringe can do for a surge of rage."
I stand up and look at her. "Now. The wager, Beatrice. You lied about me. You tried to ruin my life, end my marriage, and take my child. Fulfill the terms."
Beatrice looks at the Old Madam, her lower lip trembling. "Mother, please. You can’t let her do this. It’s barbaric. She’s being excessive. I was just... I was looking out for the family!"
Celia Wolfe leans on her cane. She looks at me, then at Beatrice. I feel like I can read exactly what is going on in her head. She doesn’t like Beatrice’s weakness, but she clearly dislikes the idea of a "nobody" like me commanding a Wolfe to strike herself even more.
"That’s enough, Emily," the Old Madam says. Her voice is like dry parchment. "You’ve proven your point. The formula is yours. The marriage remains. But do not be excessive. Beatrice is a senior member of this house. We do not engage in such... common displays of retribution. The matter is dropped. Now."
The sense of helplessness that hits me is profound. It’s a cold, sinking weight in my gut. I look at the faces around me and see the same thing in all of them: the truth doesn’t matter when it clashes with the status of the bloodline. I am the savior of their matriarch, but I am still the help in their eyes. Beatrice could have cost me everything, and her punishment is a stern look and a nap.
I look at Alistair. He’s been a silent shadow through this entire exchange, standing by the lab’s cooling units. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t move to defend the wager he witnessed.
"I understand," I say. My voice is quiet, the fire in my blood replaced by an icy, bitter clarity. "Power and privilege. I forgot the rules for a moment."
I turn away, starting to pull off my lab coat. Beatrice stands up, brushing off her suit, her smug expression returning like a slow-moving stain. She offers me a tiny, gloating smirk as she prepares to follow the Old Madam out of the lab. She thinks she’s won. She thinks she’s untouchable.
"Wait."
The word is a low, vibrato command that stops everyone in their tracks. It doesn’t come from the Old Madam.
Alistair steps out from the shadows. He walks toward the center of the room, his movements slow and deliberate. He doesn’t look at me. He looks at Beatrice, and the gray in his eyes has turned to the color of a winter sky before a blizzard.
The air in the lab suddenly feels very, very thin.