Within thirty minutes, Eleanor had moved Lyra safely into the guest room in the west wing of the mansion. She brought a warm washcloth and gently cleaned the small scratches near the child's collarbone. Thankfully, the cut was surface level, but the emotional mark was deep. Eleanor sat on the edge of the bed and held Lyra's hand in both of hers.
Eleanor: Tell me what happened before I walked through those double doors, Lyra. Tell me everything.
Lyra: She came into my room with a paper. She wanted me to sign it.
Eleanor: What kind of paper was it?
Lyra: It had big legal words on it. She said if I signed it, I would go to a special boarding school in Europe.
Eleanor: And what did you say to her?
Lyra: I said no. I told her my father said I should stay here until I grow up. Then she got angry.
Eleanor felt her blood run cold. Two years ago, Eleanor's brother—Lyra's biological father—had passed away in a tragic accident. He was a wealthy real estate developer in Dallas, Texas. In his final will and testament, he left a massive twenty million dollar trust fund for Lyra. The terms were very clear. The money and the estate would stay locked in a secure trust fund until Lyra turned eighteen years old, managed by Eleanor as the main legal trustee.
However, there was a small loophole clause hidden deep inside the inheritance documents. If Lyra was declared mentally unfit or dangerous to herself before her eighteenth birthday, control of the trust fund and the mansion would immediately transfer to her living stepmother, Victoria.
Eleanor: She tried to force you to sign a legal consent form, didn't she?
Lyra: She grabbed my arm, Aunt Eleanor. When I pulled away, she picked up the scissors. She said nobody would believe me.
Eleanor: She wanted to make it look like you tried to hurt yourself so she could declare you incompetent in court.
Lyra: Is she going to send me away? I don't want to go to a boarding school.
Eleanor: Over my dead body, Lyra. You are staying right here with me.
Eleanor stood up and walked over to the bedroom window. Outside, two security guards were patrolling the front driveway, ensuring Victoria could not leave the estate. Eleanor knew Victoria was drowning in debt. Victoria had spent millions on luxury clothes, overseas vacations, and failed business investments over the past two years. She needed Lyra's inheritance to cover her unpaid loans and avoid foreclosure on her own private properties.
Eleanor walked over to her desk and pulled out a notebook. She began writing down dates, times, and financial records. As an attorney in Dallas, she knew that accusations were not enough in a court of law. She needed hard physical proof that Victoria had staged the entire attack to steal the inheritance.
She heard a soft knock at the bedroom door. Eleanor stepped over and opened it slowly. Stand in the dimly lit hallway was Martha, the maid. The woman's face was pale, and she was wringing her apron in her hands, looking terrified.
Martha: Miss Eleanor... can I please talk to you for a moment? In private?
Eleanor: Come inside, Martha. Close the door behind you.
Martha stepped into the room, her voice barely above a whisper. She looked around nervously as if Victoria might jump out from the shadows at any moment.
Martha: I need to tell you what really happened downstairs before you got home. I cannot live with this guilt anymore.