Chapter 5 Flesh and Fire

# Chapter 5: Flesh and Fire

The Montgomery estate looked different as we approached it the next evening—more fortress than home, its windows gleaming coldly in the twilight. Griffin drove slowly past the gates, giving me one last chance to reconsider.

"We can still abort," he said, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Find another way."

I shook my head. "This is the only way to get what we need. Celeste won't expect me to come back willingly, especially after your call."

Earlier that day, Griffin had phoned Celeste from a secure line, reporting that I was becoming increasingly unstable, threatening to go public with accusations against both of them. As predicted, she had instructed him to bring me home "by any means necessary."

"Remember," Griffin said as he turned the car toward the estate's entrance, "you're frightened, desperate. You came back because you have nowhere else to go."

"I know my part," I assured him, though anxiety churned in my stomach. "Do you know yours?"

His eyes met mine briefly. "I won't let anything happen to you."

The gates opened automatically as we approached, security cameras tracking our movement up the long driveway. By the time we reached the main house, Celeste was waiting on the steps, a picture of concerned elegance in a cream cashmere sweater and tailored pants.

"Game face," Griffin murmured as he parked.

I took a deep breath and stepped out of the car, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast—the very image of defeated prey returning to the predator's den.

"Delilah," Celeste called, her voice carrying artificial warmth. "We've been so worried."

She descended the steps gracefully, arms outstretched as if to embrace me. I flinched away deliberately, playing my part.

"I had nowhere else to go," I whispered, infusing my voice with shame and fear. "Everyone thinks I'm crazy."

Celeste's smile was triumphant beneath her mask of concern. "Of course you're not crazy, darling. Just... confused. Overwhelmed." She turned to Griffin, her expression hardening slightly. "You did the right thing bringing her home."

Griffin placed a protective hand on my shoulder. "She needs rest. And privacy."

"Absolutely," Celeste agreed too quickly. "Your old room is ready, Delilah. I've had some light sedatives placed on your nightstand, should you need help sleeping."

I nodded meekly, allowing Griffin to guide me into the house. As we passed through the foyer, I noticed new security cameras in the corners—small, discreet, but unmistakable.

"Your father is in Boston on business," Celeste explained as we climbed the stairs. "He'll be so relieved to know you're home safe."

Home. The word felt hollow now. This house hadn't been home since my mother died, and now it was actively hostile territory.

At my bedroom door, Griffin squeezed my shoulder gently. "Try to rest," he said, his public persona firmly in place. "Things will look clearer in the morning."

Celeste touched his arm possessively. "I need to speak with you in my study, darling. About the arrangements we discussed."

As they walked away, I caught Griffin's subtle backward glance—a reminder of our plan. Wait two hours, then search Celeste's office while they were at dinner. The safe behind the Kandinsky held the evidence we needed.

My old bedroom was exactly as I'd left it years ago, preserved like a museum exhibit of my former self. I sat on the edge of the bed, eyeing the "sedatives" Celeste had mentioned—small blue pills in an unmarked bottle. I flushed them immediately.

Two hours crawled by. I heard Celeste and Griffin downstairs, their voices rising and falling in patterns that suggested normalcy to any listening ears. At precisely eight o'clock, I heard the front door open and close, followed by a car engine starting—right on schedule.

I waited ten more minutes before slipping into the hallway. The house was eerily quiet, most of the staff dismissed for the evening as Griffin had arranged. Moving silently, I made my way to Celeste's private office at the end of the west wing.

The door was locked, but Griffin had provided a key card that bypassed the electronic system. Inside, the office was meticulously organized—white furniture, crystal paperweights, a desk clear of all but a single orchid in a silver pot.

The Kandinsky hung on the far wall, vibrant colors at odds with the monochromatic room. I moved it carefully, revealing the safe behind—a modern, digital model with a keypad. Griffin had given me the likely combination, based on patterns Celeste had used before.

My fingers trembled slightly as I input the numbers: 10-17-68. My mother's birthday—a fact that made my stomach turn. The safe remained locked. I tried again, this time with my father's birthday. Nothing.

Panic began to rise. Without these documents, our entire plan collapsed. I tried one more combination—the date Celeste had married my father. The safe clicked open.

Inside were several folders, neatly labeled. I quickly found what we needed—a thick file labeled "Montgomery Succession" and another marked "D.M. Contingency." I photographed every page with the specialized camera Griffin had given me, working as fast as I dared.

The last document made my blood run cold—detailed plans for having me declared mentally incompetent, including forged psychological evaluations and statements from "witnesses" to my alleged instability. There were even drafts of press releases announcing my "voluntary" commitment to a private mental health facility—one owned by a business associate of Celeste's.

I was so absorbed in the documents that I nearly missed the sound of the front door opening. Frantically, I returned the files to the safe, locked it, and replaced the painting. As footsteps approached the office, I looked desperately for somewhere to hide.

The door opened just as I ducked behind the heavy curtains. Through the gap, I could see Griffin entering alone, his expression tense.

"Delilah?" he called softly.

I emerged from my hiding place, relief washing over me. "You scared me to death. I thought you were at dinner with Celeste."

"Change of plans. She received a call and left separately." His eyes darted to the painting. "Did you get what we needed?"

I patted the camera hidden in my pocket. "Everything. Including plans for my imminent psychiatric commitment."

Griffin's jaw tightened. "We need to move faster than anticipated. Celeste suspects something—she's been asking questions about my time away from the house."

"Where is she now?"

"Meeting her lawyer. We have maybe an hour before she returns." He took my hand. "Come on. We need to get you out of here."

We moved swiftly through the darkened house, Griffin leading me toward the service entrance at the rear. We had almost reached it when lights suddenly flooded the kitchen, revealing Celeste leaning against the counter, a glass of wine in her hand.

"Going somewhere?" she asked pleasantly.

Griffin pushed me slightly behind him, his body language shifting instantly to casual confidence. "Delilah was feeling claustrophobic. I thought some fresh air might help."

"How considerate." Celeste's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Especially using the servants' exit. Almost as if you didn't want to be seen."

"You're overthinking, as usual," Griffin replied smoothly. "We were simply avoiding the security cameras. Delilah's still sensitive about her privacy after those leaked photos."

Celeste set down her wine glass and moved toward us with feline grace. "Interesting theory. Let me offer another: you're helping her escape after she searched my office."

My heart stopped. Griffin's hand tightened around mine.

"That's absurd," he said, but there was new tension in his voice.

"Is it?" Celeste withdrew her phone, tapping the screen to reveal security footage of me entering her office. "Did you really think I wouldn't have cameras monitoring my own safe, Griffin? I'm disappointed."

"It's not what you think," I began, but Celeste cut me off with a laugh.

"Oh, I think it's exactly what I think. The question is—" she turned her cold gaze to Griffin, "—how long have you been playing both sides?"

Griffin stepped forward, his demeanor changing completely. The warmth I'd come to know vanished, replaced by calculating coldness.

"Since the beginning," he said with a cruel smile. "Did you really think I'd settle for being your puppet? I needed to understand exactly how unstable Delilah truly was."

I stared at him in shock, my hand dropping from his. "Griffin?"

He didn't look at me. "I told you she was fixated on me after our encounter. I needed to see how far she'd go—breaking into your office, stealing documents, making wild accusations. It's all documented now."

Celeste studied him, suspicion warring with approval. "You encouraged her delusions?"

"I needed evidence that would stand up to scrutiny," Griffin replied. "For the commitment proceedings. What better than catching her in the act?"

My mind raced, trying to process this betrayal. Had everything been a lie? The planning, the kiss, the promises of alliance?

"You bastard," I whispered.

Griffin finally looked at me, his green eyes unreadable. "Nothing personal, Delilah. Just business."

Celeste's smile widened as she watched my devastation. "Oh, darling. Did you really think he cared for you? Griffin knows which side his bread is buttered on."

She moved to his side, placing a possessive hand on his chest. He pulled her close, one arm around her waist, and kissed her deeply. The sight made my stomach heave.

"What happens now?" I asked when they finally broke apart.

"Now," Celeste said, all pretense of warmth gone, "you go upstairs and take those sedatives like a good girl. Tomorrow, we begin the process of getting you the 'help' you so clearly need."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then we do this the hard way," Griffin said coldly. "Your choice."

I looked between them—Celeste triumphant, Griffin impassive—and felt something break inside me. Not my spirit, but the last remnants of naiveté. If I was going to survive this, I needed to play their game better than they did.

"Fine," I said, injecting defeat into my voice. "You win."

Celeste's smile was pure victory. "I always do. Griffin, escort her upstairs. Make sure she takes the medication."

As Griffin took my arm, his grip firm but not painful, I caught a flicker of something in his eyes—a message I couldn't decipher. Was it regret? Another lie? Or something else entirely?

He led me upstairs in silence, his hand at the small of my back—a touch that had comforted me days ago but now felt like a brand of betrayal. Inside my bedroom, he closed the door and turned to face me.

"Delilah—" he began, his voice low.

"Don't," I cut him off. "Don't you dare try to explain."

"You need to trust me," he whispered urgently. "This isn't what it seems."

"Nothing ever is with you, is it?" I laughed bitterly. "You played me perfectly. Again."

Griffin glanced at the door, then moved closer. "The cameras in here are visual only, no audio. Listen carefully. What happened downstairs was necessary. Celeste was suspicious already. I had to convince her."

"By declaring your undying loyalty and kissing her in front of me?"

"By doing whatever was needed to maintain my position," he countered. "The documents you photographed—did you transmit them as I showed you?"

The question caught me off guard. "Yes, but—"

"Then we still have a chance. Claire received them?"

The mention of Claire stunned me. "How do you know about—"

"Because I arranged it," he said impatiently. "Who do you think has been keeping her informed of our plans? Protecting her from Celeste's surveillance?"

Doubt crept in, tempering my anger. "Prove it. Prove this is still part of the plan."

Griffin pulled me suddenly against his chest, his lips at my ear as if embracing me. "The blue pills aren't sedatives," he whispered. "They're sugar. The real medication Celeste intended for you is in the bathroom cabinet—a much stronger dose. She's planning to have you completely incapacitated by morning."

He pulled back, his eyes intense on mine. "I need you to trust me for twenty-four more hours. Can you do that?"

I searched his face, looking for deception. "Why should I?"

"Because despite everything," he said softly, one hand coming up to cup my cheek, "what happened between us was real. Is real."

Before I could respond, he leaned in and kissed me—not the passionate kiss he'd shared with Celeste, but something gentler, more desperate. When he pulled away, his expression had hardened again, the mask back in place.

"Take the pills where the cameras can see you," he said loudly enough for anyone monitoring to hear. "It's for your own good, Delilah."

With that, he left, closing the door firmly behind him. I stood frozen, my lips still tingling from his kiss, my mind racing with possibilities. Trust him or run? Believe in another layer of deception or accept the simpler truth of betrayal?

I moved to the nightstand and picked up the bottle of blue pills, turning it in my hands. Through the bedroom window, I could see Griffin and Celeste in the garden below, their heads close together as they spoke. As I watched, she laughed at something he said, her hand possessively on his arm.

Then Griffin looked up, his eyes finding my window with unerring precision. For a brief moment, our gazes locked across the distance.

I uncapped the pill bottle, my decision made.