Chapter 4 The Sweetest Poison

# Chapter 4: The Sweetest Poison

"Survival? Revenge?" I crossed my arms, maintaining my distance from Griffin. "You expect me to believe you want to help me after everything you've done?"

Griffin didn't move closer, seeming to understand my need for space. "I understand your skepticism."

"Skepticism doesn't begin to cover it. You gaslit me, let Celeste paint me as unstable, and stood by while my entire life was dismantled."

"I did," he acknowledged, his directness surprising me. "And I'm not asking for forgiveness. I'm offering you information—and a way out."

"Out of what, exactly?"

Griffin gestured toward a sleek laptop on the coffee table. "Take a look."

Cautiously, I approached and opened the computer. On screen was a file labeled "Montgomery-Blake Acquisition." I clicked it open to find detailed documents about my father's company, financial projections, stock evaluations, and—most disturbingly—psychological profiles of key figures, including my father.

And me.

"What is this?" I whispered, scrolling through a clinical assessment of my "emotional vulnerabilities" and "pressure points."

"Celeste's research," Griffin said, sitting down across from me. "She doesn't just want your father's money or social position. She wants his company."

I looked up from the screen. "She already has access to both."

"Access isn't ownership. Your father's company bylaws include a trust provision—his shares pass to his direct descendants unless he specifically changes his will. You're his only child."

The realization dawned slowly. "She needs me out of the way."

"Or controlled," Griffin corrected. "Declared mentally incompetent, perhaps. Or convinced to sign over your future interests voluntarily."

I thought of the "wellness retreat" my father had mentioned. "And you're helping her why, exactly?"

Griffin's expression darkened. "I was. Past tense."

"What changed?"

"You," he said simply.

I scoffed. "One day at Coney Island and you had a moral awakening?"

"It wasn't just a day." His voice softened. "It was watching someone genuine in a world of calculated moves. Someone who talked about dreams and ideas instead of mergers and acquisitions."

"Pretty words from someone who's clearly an expert at manipulation."

Griffin didn't deny it. "I've been playing this game a long time. With Celeste, with others like her. It becomes... normal."

"And I'm supposed to believe you've suddenly developed a conscience?"

"Believe what you want." He stood, moving to a cabinet where he poured two glasses of water. "But the facts remain. Celeste is systematically isolating you. Your job, your reputation, your financial independence—all being stripped away. Soon, she'll move on your father directly."

I accepted the water, careful not to let our fingers touch. "How did you find me at that motel?"

"I've been tracking the people tracking you." He returned to his seat. "Celeste hired private security—former intelligence operatives—to monitor you. I have access to their communications."

"And you just happened to reach me before they did?"

A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Not happenstance. I've been... redirecting their efforts when possible."

I wanted to disbelieve him, to see this as another layer of manipulation, but the evidence on the laptop was hard to ignore. My profile included details that only intense surveillance could have uncovered—favorite coffee shops, writing habits, even the name of my first pet.

"Why would Celeste go to these lengths?" I asked, closing the laptop. "Even if I'm out of the picture, my father controls his company."

"For now. But Robert Montgomery has had two minor cardiac episodes in the past year—episodes Celeste has kept quiet."

Cold dread washed over me. "My father is sick?"

"Not critically, but Celeste has been... managing his health information. Emphasizing risks, encouraging him to consider succession planning."

"She's preparing for him to step down," I realized. "Or worse."

Griffin nodded. "And when he does, she wants to ensure the company passes to her control, not yours."

I set my glass down hard, water sloshing over the edge. "Why should I believe any of this coming from you?"

"Because I'm giving you proof." He slid a small flash drive across the table. "Everything I've told you, plus more. Financial records, communications, the complete strategy."

I eyed the drive suspiciously. "And what do you get out of betraying Celeste?"

"A clean break," he said. "And perhaps... atonement."

"For what?"

Something flickered in his eyes—regret, possibly even shame. "For becoming someone I never intended to be."

The sincerity in his voice was compelling, but I'd been fooled by him before. I pocketed the drive without commitment.

"Let's say I believe you," I said carefully. "What's your plan?"

"First, we establish your safety. This property isn't connected to me in any traceable way. You can stay here while we work."

"Work on what?"

"Dismantling Celeste's narrative and building our counteroffensive."

"Our?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Your knowledge of your father, my inside position with Celeste. Together, we have a chance."

I stood, needing to move, to think. The wall of windows revealed only darkness now, the lake invisible in the night. I was effectively trapped here, dependent on Griffin—a man who had already betrayed me once.

"I need time," I said finally. "And space."

Griffin nodded. "Of course. There's a bedroom prepared for you upstairs. Lock the door if it makes you feel safer."

He started to leave, then paused. "Delilah... whatever you decide, don't contact anyone from your old life. Not yet. The moment you do, Celeste will know exactly where you are."

After he left, I explored the house cautiously. The bedroom was spacious and impersonal, like an upscale hotel room. I tested the door—it locked from the inside, as promised. The windows opened, overlooking dense forest. I could leave if I needed to, though where I would go remained unclear.

I inserted the flash drive into my laptop and spent hours reading through the files. The evidence was comprehensive and damning—emails between Celeste and various co-conspirators, financial arrangements that bordered on criminal, detailed surveillance reports on me stretching back months.

Most disturbing was a document titled "Contingency Plans," which outlined several scenarios for neutralizing me as a threat, ranging from character assassination (already in progress) to having me involuntarily committed, to arranging an "accident" if all else failed.

By dawn, exhaustion overcame my vigilance, and I fell into a restless sleep.

---

I woke to sunlight and the smell of coffee. Cautiously making my way downstairs, I found Griffin in the kitchen, cooking.

"You sleep," he observed, sliding a mug of coffee across the counter toward me.

"Not well." I accepted the coffee but didn't drink immediately. "How do I know this isn't drugged?"

Rather than being offended, Griffin took the mug back and sipped from it himself before returning it to me. "Satisfied?"

I took a small sip. "For now."

"I made breakfast," he said, gesturing to plates of eggs and toast. "We should talk about next steps."

"I'm not convinced there should be 'we' in this equation," I said, though the smell of food reminded me I hadn't eaten properly in days.

Griffin set a plate in front of me. "Fair enough. But you've read the files. You know what we're facing."

I did know. The depth of Celeste's plotting had shocked even my cynical expectations. "Why did you get involved with her in the first place?"

He considered the question while plating his own breakfast. "I specialized in helping wealthy clients protect and expand their assets through... creative means. Celeste approached me with an opportunity I couldn't refuse."

"My father's company."

"And everything that came with it." He sat across from me. "She was offering a partnership—personal and professional."

"So it was just business?" The thought bothered me more than it should have.

"Initially," he admitted. "Celeste is compelling. Driven. Ruthless in ways that can be... admirable, from a certain perspective."

"Until she turned those qualities against me."

"Yes." His eyes met mine. "That was the line I didn't expect to cross."

We ate in silence for a few moments, the surreality of our situation settling over us. Here I was, having breakfast with the man who had helped destroy my life, contemplating an alliance against the woman who had orchestrated it all.

"If we do this," I said finally, "I need complete transparency. No more lies. No more manipulations."

"Agreed," Griffin said quickly.

"And I call the shots regarding my father. Whatever happens, he doesn't get hurt."

Griffin hesitated. "I can't promise Celeste won't move against him regardless of what we do."

"Then we make sure she can't," I insisted. "That's non-negotiable."

"Alright." He nodded. "Your father's safety is priority."

I studied him, trying to read sincerity in his expression. There was something different about him here—more authentic than the charming stranger at Coney Island or the polished fiancé at the birthday party. This Griffin seemed... unguarded. Whether that was genuine or his most sophisticated performance yet remained to be seen.

"So what's the first move?" I asked.

"We need leverage," Griffin explained. "Something concrete that proves Celeste's intentions and methods."

"Beyond what's on the flash drive?"

"That evidence is compelling to you, but much of it would be inadmissible legally or could be explained away. We need something definitive."

I thought for a moment. "Celeste keeps meticulous records. She always has, even for small things like household expenses."

"Yes," Griffin agreed. "Her office at the house has a safe behind her Kandinsky print. That's where she keeps her most sensitive documents."

"Can you access it?"

"Not easily. She changes the combination weekly, and she'd notice if I started searching for it."

I set down my fork. "Then I'll have to go back."

Griffin looked alarmed. "That's exactly what Celeste wants—to lure you back into her territory."

"Which is why she won't expect me to come willingly," I countered. "If you return to the house and report that I'm becoming a liability, that I'm threatening to go public with accusations..."

"She'll want to accelerate her plans to discredit you," Griffin finished, understanding dawning. "Create an opportunity for you to return on her terms."

"Where I'll be the compliant, frightened stepdaughter—right until I'm not."

Griffin's expression shifted from concern to something like admiration. "It's risky."

"Everything about this is risky," I said. "But I know that house better than she does. I grew up there."

He nodded slowly. "We'll need to prepare carefully. Celeste leaves nothing to chance."

"Neither will we."

Something changed between us in that moment—a tentative trust forming out of mutual necessity. As we began planning, Griffin's behavior oscillated between strategic coldness and surprising warmth. One moment he was the calculating operator, outlining contingencies with clinical precision; the next, his hand would brush mine as we leaned over maps of the estate, his eyes softening when I spoke of my father.

This duality kept me off-balance, never quite sure which Griffin was real—the manipulator or the ally. Perhaps both existed simultaneously, his true nature as complex as the situation we faced.

That night, as we finalized our initial strategy, I found myself watching him work—the intensity of his concentration, the elegant efficiency of his movements. Despite everything, I couldn't deny the pull I still felt toward him.

"You're staring," he observed without looking up from his laptop.

"I'm trying to figure you out," I admitted.

He closed the computer and turned to face me fully. "What do you want to know?"

"Was any of it real? That day at Coney Island."

His expression grew serious. "All of it."

"Even knowing who I was?"

"I didn't know," he insisted. "Celeste had shown me photos of you, but they were years old. The Delilah I met on that Ferris wheel was nothing like the bitter, estranged daughter she'd described."

I wanted to believe him. Part of me already did. "And now? Is this—" I gestured between us, "—real? Or another role you're playing?"

Griffin moved closer, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes. "I've played many roles in my life, Delilah. But what I feel for you isn't one of them."

"And what exactly do you feel?"

Instead of answering with words, he reached out slowly, giving me time to pull away, and brushed a strand of hair from my face. His touch lingered, warm against my skin.

"Something I shouldn't," he said quietly. "Something that complicates everything."

The air between us charged with possibility. I knew I should step back, maintain the boundary between ally and something more dangerous. But when his hand cupped my cheek, I leaned into his touch.

"This is a mistake," I whispered.

"Probably," he agreed, but neither of us moved away.

When his lips met mine, the kiss was nothing like our first on the Ferris wheel. That had been spontaneous, joyful. This was deliberate, intense—acknowledgment of the dangerous game we were playing and the impossible odds we faced.

I pulled back first, breathless. "We can't afford distractions."

Griffin nodded, though his eyes remained fixed on my lips. "You're right."

"Tomorrow, we focus on the plan. Just the plan."

"Of course." He stepped away, creating necessary distance between us. "Goodnight, Delilah."

As I climbed the stairs to my room, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was making the same mistake twice—trusting a man who had already proven his capacity for deception. But there was something different now, something in the way Griffin looked at me when he thought I wouldn't notice. Something that felt like truth.

Or perhaps the sweetest poison of all.