Chapter 5 - The Trap is Set
By Thursday morning, the whispered rumors inside the mansion had reached a fever pitch.
Staff members tiptoed through the hallways as if walking on thin ice. When Mason slammed his study door at nine o'clock after an apparent shouting match with his legal team over speakerphone, two junior maids nearly dropped a basket of laundry in the corridor.
Word traveled fast in high-net-worth households. Within hours, industry blogs and financial newsletters were picking up whispers of internal instability at Blackwell Meridian. Anonymous sources—neatly planted by Mason’s own counter-intelligence team, though only Mason and Dorcas knew it—were leaking that the billionaire CEO was cracking under the pressure of the SEC inquiry and personal family stress.
In the kitchen, Dorcas was carefully plating a delicate wild mushroom risotto for Eleanor’s lunch when Henry walked in, looking more distressed than usual.
“Miss Reed,” Henry whispered, glancing back toward the swinging doors to ensure no one else was listening. “Mr. Mason has locked himself in his study again. He hasn't eaten since yesterday afternoon. When I tried to bring him tea, he shouted at me to get out.”
Dorcas didn't look up from her plate. “Did he throw anything?”
“No, but his voice... it sounded entirely unhinged, Miss Reed. He started talking about the walls having ears and questioning whether the security cameras were being monitored from outside.” Henry shook his head mournfully. “I’m afraid the stress has finally broken him. Mr. Vance is flying in from New York this afternoon for an emergency board evaluation.”
Dorcas suppressed a knowing smile. The bait had been taken.
“Don't worry, Henry,” Dorcas said calmly, wiping her hands and picking up the silver tray. “Mr. Blackwell is just staging a very expensive theatrical performance. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go feed his mother.”
Upstairs, Eleanor was sitting by her large bay window, watching the falling sleet tap against the glass. The cashmere blanket was draped neatly over her frail legs. When Dorcas entered, the older woman turned, a gentle, welcoming smile touching her weathered face.
“Ah, my favorite part of the day,” Eleanor said softly. “Tell me, Dorcas, are the servants still running around like headless chickens downstairs?”
Dorcas set the tray down on the small table beside the wheelchair. “Worse. Henry looks like he’s about to draft his own will.”
Eleanor chuckled, though there was a sad shadow lingering in her eyes. “Mason takes after his father. They both believed that if you showed vulnerability, the world would tear you apart. My husband built this empire on blood and sweat, and Mason has spent his whole life defending the walls. He doesn't know how to rest.”
“He knows how to fight,” Dorcas said, pulling up a chair and sitting across from her. “The question is whether he knows how to trust.”
Eleanor looked out the window. “Julian was always the charming one. The one who could smile while picking your pocket. Mason was the shield. When Julian walked away, Mason blamed himself for not being strong enough to hold the family together.” She turned back to Dorcas, her gaze piercingly sharp despite her age. “You’re good for him, child. You don't bow, and you don't break.”
“I’m just the cook, Mrs. Blackwell.”
“Nonsense,” Eleanor smiled gently. “A cook feeds the body. You’re feeding his soul, whether he’s smart enough to admit it or not.”
Before Dorcas could respond, a sharp, hurried knock sounded at the bedroom door. It swung open before either of them could answer, revealing Mason.
His hair was slightly disheveled, his collar unbuttoned, his tie hanging loose around his neck. He looked the exact picture of a man on the verge of a complete psychological collapse.
“Mother,” Mason said, his voice tight and breathless as he stepped into the room. He shot a swift, calculating glance at Dorcas before continuing his performance. “Vance’s helicopter just touched down on the pad. He brought two board members with him. They’re calling an emergency vote in the main parlor in twenty minutes.”
Eleanor straightened in her wheelchair, her voice suddenly ringing with absolute authority. “Let them come, Mason. Do not let them see you shake.”
“I’m ruined, Mother,” Mason muttered, playing his part to absolute perfection, pacing across the Persian rug. “They’re going to strip me of my voting shares. They’re going to take Blackwell Meridian.”
Dorcas watched him from across the room, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing aloud at his dramatic flair. For a multi-billionaire CEO, the man had a surprisingly bright future in Hollywood.
“Go down there,” Dorcas said quietly, standing up from her chair and meeting his gaze. “And don't forget to look adequately terrified.”
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Mason stopped pacing. For a split second, the frantic mask slipped, revealing a glint of absolute, cold steel in his gray-green eyes.
“Watch me,” he whispered. Then, turning on his heel, he stormed out of the room, slamming the heavy oak door behind him with a crash that echoed all the way down the grand hallway.
