The Mask Slips
At dawn, the storm broke, and a black luxury SUV crunched up the drive. Out stepped Charles—impeccable, wealthy, and radiating a polished, condescending “concern.”
“My poor Aunt,” Charles sighed, barely acknowledging Lauren. “Dementia is a thief. She wanders off and tells these wild fantasies about money and estates. I hope she didn’t bore you with her stories.”
He was too smooth. His eyes were cold, scanning the humble cottage with a sneer of superiority. As he forced Mabel toward the car, he whispered to Lauren, “Stay out of family business, dear. People like you shouldn’t overreach.”
As the SUV sped away, Mabel pressed her face to the glass, her eyes wide with a silent plea.
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