9. White Icing
Chapter nine
White Icing
The air outside bit at my exposed cheeks.
I walked along the paved stone path of the sprawling estate gardens, my leather boots crunching over patches of morning frost that clung to the dead grass.
I pulled the lapels of my thick maternity coat tighter across my chest. The wind whipped past the bare branches of the oak trees, stealing the sparse warmth from my skin.
Winter had completely killed the grounds.
Bastien walked exactly one step behind my right shoulder. He moved with a stiff, professional tension, his gaze tracking the empty perimeter of the lawn.
“Watch the frost,” he murmured, leaning closer to my ear. “Keep your footing.”
“I have it,” I replied, staring down at the uneven stones.
I slowed my pace, accommodating the awkward weight of my bump.
My baby kicked against my ribs, a sudden, reassuring thump beneath the layers of wool and cashmere.
I slipped my bare hand inside my coat pocket, seeking refuge from the biting chill.
My breath plumed in the air, instantly swept away by the wind.
We followed the curving path leading toward the center of the gardens. A dormant stone fountain sat in the middle of a dying hedge maze, its basin empty and lined with brittle leaves.
“Keep moving toward the fountain,” Bastien instructed, his voice a low hum. “I don’t want anyone looking out the kitchen windows.”
“Marta is prepping lunch,” I said, my voice barely carrying over the wind. “She never looks past the terrace.”
“I don’t leave things to chance. Keep walking.”
I nodded and forced myself forward.
The midday sun reflected off the pale, dry stone of the fountain, creating a blinding glare. I squinted against it. The brightness offered no heat, only a cold, empty light. We were legally stranded.
Bastien had spent the first ten minutes of our walk detailing the dead ends traced from the burner phone.
I had assumed those vulgar messages were our smoking gun.
I assumed reading my mother’s own words confirming she had trapped my father for his money would trigger an arrest. I was wrong. Being a gold digger wasn’t illegal.
Without a digital money trail, the police possessed zero leverage.
Tobias had handed untraceable cash directly to his bookies.
He exploited a legal loophole with the ransom.
If I took those explicit texts to Detective Loxley, it would trigger a messy divorce proceeding, not a criminal investigation.
A divorce would leave my husband walking away with half of my assets and a legitimate claim to custody of my daughter.
The thought of handing my child over to the man who had orchestrated my abduction turned my stomach.
Tobias would smile for the family court judges, wearing his tailored suits and flashing his country-club charm.
He would paint me as a traumatized, hysterical woman unfit for primary custody.
He would use the fake panic attacks I had staged in the living room to prove I was mentally unstable.
I refused to give him that ammunition.
We stopped at the edge of the paved circle. I turned my back to the harsh reflection of the stone fountain. Bastien stepped up beside me, blocking the wind with his broad shoulders. He kept his eyes trained on the back terrace of the house, scanning the glass patio doors for any movement.
“There has to be a slip-up on that phone,” I insisted, refusing to accept the dead end. “A deleted email. A contact name.”
“I traced the numbers, and they led back to prepaid burners dropped in a river weeks ago,” Bastien said. “I’ve gone over it from every angle, Cecilia. The texts prove he’s a monster, but adultery isn’t a felony.”
I braced both hands over the swell of my coat, shielding my stomach from the wind. “He walked away with five million dollars.”
“And he handed it off in physical bills,” Bastien replied. “Without any wire transfer records to tie him or Lavinia to the crime, the police can’t touch them.”
I stared at the frost clinging to the iron benches nearby. Tobias had settled his gambling debts off the books, erasing the bridge between my trust fund and the syndicate thugs. My mother had coordinated the ambush with a smile on her face. They were going to get away with it.
“So he just gets away with it,” I said. “He stays in my house, sleeps with my mother, and waits for the trust to pay out my monthly dividends.”
Bastien turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto mine. He offered no empty sympathies or false hope.
“He is insulated,” he said. “Unless he makes a mistake, we don’t have a case.”
I turned away from the fountain. The chill had seeped through my boots, and a dull, familiar ache settled into my lower back. I headed slowly toward the rear terrace of the estate.
“You need to sit down,” Bastien murmured, matching my pace. “Your color is off.”
“The terrace bench,” I said, pointing toward the house. “My back is aching.”
I reached the wrought-iron bench just outside the patio doors. I sat down, resting my hands in my lap and sinking back against the cold metal slats. Bastien remained near the edge of the stone pavers, keeping watch.
The glass doors glided on their tracks, sliding open.
Marta stepped out onto the terrace. She wore a knitted beige cardigan over her uniform, shivering as the winter wind hit her. She carried a polished silver tray holding a steaming porcelain teacup and a small plate. A thick, frosted pastry sat on the china.
“I brought you a little something sweet for your walk, Mrs. Stanton,” Marta said, offering a warm, innocent smile. “Just to keep your energy up in the cold.”
“Thank you, Marta,” I replied, masking my tension. “That’s very kind of you.”
Marta set the tray down on the iron bench next to me. The silver clanked against the slats. She adjusted the napkin, offered another quick smile, and turned away. The patio doors rumbled shut behind her, sealing her back inside the warm house.
I looked down at the tray. Thick plumes of steam rose from the teacup, mixing with the sharp scent of the winter pine trees. But the smell of the pastry overpowered it. The sugary, buttery aroma of the white icing drifted up from the plate.
I pressed my hands flat against my lap. I stared at the dense crust.
The bright winter terrace vanished. The air around me suddenly felt suffocating and damp, smelling of standing water and cheap paper wrappers.
I didn’t hear the patio doors rumble shut; I only heard the heavy, echoing clang of the metal warehouse door.
The bodega danish the thugs had fed me looked exactly like the expensive pastry resting inches from my leg.
I swallowed hard. I remembered the swelling heat radiating down my windpipe, the whistle of my own gasps, the black spots swarming my vision as I lay flat on the concrete. I refused to move. I refused to lift my hands. I refused to reach out and touch the silver tray.
I stared at the white icing, waiting for the panic to subside.
Marta was a kind woman. She baked pastries and worried about my energy levels, completely blind to the monsters living right down the hall. She did not know my husband used me as a financial loophole.
As I stared at the dense crust, my panicked breathing finally slowed. I knew exactly what I had to do.
The kidnappers had nearly killed me by accident. A cheap pastry triggered a lethal reaction because they were ignorant of my allergy. But if a simple mistake could seal my airway in less than five minutes, a deliberate exposure would be a deniable weapon.
Tobias was a coward who hid behind physical cash and burner phones to keep his hands clean. He would never use a gun or a knife. He would use the one thing that looked natural.
I did not have to find evidence of a past crime. I just needed to give him a reason to commit a new one.
Bastien turned his head from the lawn, his gaze sweeping the back patio.
“She went back to the kitchen,” he said. “Tobias won’t be home for hours.”
I stared at the stark white icing on the silver tray.
The sugary scent mixed with the freezing winter wind, making my throat tighten.
My hands remained flat against the lap of my coat.
The kidnappers had explicit orders to keep me alive.
Tobias needed a living wife to extract the ransom from my trust fund.
My father’s strict financial guardrails acted as a shield.
If I had died in that damp room, the money would have gone to a charity, and Tobias would have walked away with nothing but his gambling debts.
He wanted the money more than he wanted me dead.
But his vulgar text messages proved he despised me, and my mother was right there with him.
They both hated my existence, tolerated only because I held the keys to the empire.
The sheer audacity of it made my blood burn, driving a sudden heat into my wind-chilled cheeks. I ignored the dull ache in my lower spine and forced myself to my feet. The iron bench squeaked beneath me. I turned my back on the untouched pastry and faced Bastien.
“I see now,” I said. Clouds of white breath fogged the air between us.
Bastien adjusted his stance, his boots grinding against the frosted stone pavers. He stepped closer to the bench, his imposing frame eclipsing the harsh glare of the midday sun. His dark eyes held mine, watching me straighten my spine.
“We were looking at it from the wrong angle,” I continued. I kept my voice low, ensuring the sound didn’t carry across the dormant garden. “He didn’t want to have me killed, only kidnapped for the money. But we have no way to prove that.”
Bastien rested his hands on his hips. He considered the house for a brief second before giving a curt nod. “Right. And he won’t try it again anytime soon.”