The cramped, stale air of Mrs. Thorne's sitting room still clung to Sandra, but it was eclipsed by the burning clarity in her mind. Isabella Laurent's decoded journal entries lay seared into her memory: *'Middleton – vulnerable. Riverfront key. Reginald eyes it. Pattern repeats.'* Reginald Barton hadn't just orchestrated her marriage; he'd orchestrated her family's ruin as the prelude. He was the architect of their despair, the puppeteer pulling every string.
The fragile unity with Paul, reforged in the crucible of the frame-up, now thrummed with a new, dangerous energy. They had proof – the journal, the silver locket's list, the investigator's report exposing the demolition forgery. But proof needed power to act upon it. Against Reginald Barton's entrenched influence, the police were useless, the courts likely compromised. They needed leverage. They needed to turn Reginald's own weapons against him.
"They know," Sandra stated, pacing the worn rug in Paul's private sitting room where they'd retreated. Pip hopped nervously on the mantelpiece. "My parents. They're drowning in Barton money, terrified of losing the lifeline. But they *must* know, deep down, that Reginald engineered their collapse. The desperation… the timing… it's too convenient."
Paul, leaning against the window frame, watched her. The shadows under his eyes were still deep, but his gaze was sharp, focused. "Knowing and admitting are different, Sandra. Fear is a powerful silencer. Especially fear of Reginald Barton."
"Exactly," Sandra stopped pacing, turning to face him. "But that fear makes them vulnerable to *him*. What if we offer them a different kind of fear? The fear of being exposed as willing pawns? Or," she paused, letting the idea solidify, "the fear of losing the only thing they have left besides Barton charity: their daughter's cooperation?"
Paul's brow furrowed. "Cooperation? You think they'll help us?"
"Not willingly," Sandra conceded, a cold glint in her eyes that hadn't been there before Blackwood. "But they're drowning, Paul. They cling to the money, to the illusion of survival he dangles. We need to show them the hook inside the bait. We need to make them understand that their continued solvency depends entirely on *my* continued presence and cooperation *here*." She gestured around the room. "And my cooperation hinges on *theirs*."
Understanding dawned in Paul's eyes, a flicker of grim admiration. "You want to turn them into informants. Against Reginald."
"Reluctant ones," Sandra nodded. "They move in his circles, however diminished. They hear things. They see things he might let slip, thinking they're too cowed or too grateful to notice. Evelyn especially – she listens, she calculates." She recalled her mother's sharp eyes, her pragmatic survival instinct. "They fear Reginald. But they fear destitution more. We offer them survival, contingent on their usefulness to *us*."
Paul pushed off the window frame. "It's dangerous. For them. For you. If Reginald suspects—"
"If Reginald suspects *anything*, we're all doomed anyway," Sandra cut in, her voice hard. "This isn't about safety anymore. It's about striking back. Using his own tactics – leverage, fear, manipulation. They traded me for money. Now, that trade works both ways." The ruthlessness of the thought surprised even her, but the memory of the demolition order, the decoded proof of her family's targeted ruin, hardened her resolve. "I need to see them. Today."
***
The journey to the Middleton townhouse felt like crossing into a different world, one bleached of colour and hope. The once-proud building looked shabbier, the windows grimier. The air inside was thick with the scent of dust, stale tea, and an overwhelming sense of defeat.
Arthur Middleton sat slumped in his armchair, staring blankly at the cold fireplace. He looked shrunken, older than his years, his eyes devoid of the bluster Sandra remembered. Evelyn stood by the window, her back rigid, but her knuckles were white where she gripped the sill. The opulent pretense was gone, stripped bare by the relentless pressure of debt and dependence.
"Sandra?" Evelyn turned, surprise warring with apprehension on her face. "What are you doing here? Is everything…?" She couldn't finish the question, her eyes darting nervously as if expecting Barton enforcers.
Arthur roused himself, blinking. "Sandra? Has something happened? The funds…?"
"The funds are secure, Father," Sandra stated, her voice cool, devoid of the warmth she might have once offered. She didn't sit. She remained standing, a visitor in her former home, radiating an authority that felt alien yet necessary. "For now."
Evelyn's eyes narrowed. "For now? What does that mean?"
"It means," Sandra said, locking eyes with her mother, "that your solvency, your very roof over your heads, depends entirely on my continued position as Mrs. Paul Barton." She let the implication hang. "And my position depends on factors that are… shifting."
Arthur paled. "Shifting? What are you talking about, girl? Has Barton…?"
"Reginald Barton," Sandra corrected sharply, the name like a blade. "Not Paul." She saw the flicker of confusion. "You traded me to save this family from ruin. But did you ever ask *why* you faced ruin? Why it was so sudden? So absolute?"
Evelyn stiffened. "Bad investments. Mismanagement. The market—"
"The market was manipulated, Mother," Sandra interrupted, her voice cutting through the excuses. "By Reginald Barton. Deliberately. Systematically. Just like he ruined Vance Textiles. Just like he ruins any business that stands in his way or holds something he wants." She took a step forward, her gaze pinning them both. "He targeted us. He orchestrated our collapse to force me into that marriage, to get control of the riverside warehouses. You weren't just unlucky. You were *chosen*."
Arthur surged to his feet, his face mottled with a mixture of fury and dawning horror. "That's a lie! A vicious—"
"Is it?" Sandra pulled a folded copy of the decoded journal entry from her reticule. She didn't show them the whole book, just the damning lines: *'Middleton – vulnerable. Riverfront key. Reginald eyes it. Pattern repeats.'* And below it, the translation. She thrust it towards Evelyn. "Read it. Isabella Laurent saw it years ago. She documented his *pattern*."
Evelyn snatched the paper, her eyes scanning the words rapidly. Her face lost all colour. Her hand trembled. "Isabella… Laurent? Who…?"
"Paul's true wife," Sandra stated flatly. "Before Reginald erased her. Just like he tried to erase our family's legacy with a forged demolition order." She watched the impact hit – the confirmation of a conspiracy far larger than their own misfortune.
Arthur sank back into his chair, looking ill. "Demolition? Forged?"
"Signed with Paul's name, while he lay feverish," Sandra confirmed. "Reginald framed him to drive us apart, to maintain control. He plays us all against each other. And you," she looked from her father's ashen face to her mother's frozen one, "you are his tools. His terrified, indebted tools."
Evelyn looked up from the paper, her eyes wide with a new kind of fear – not just of destitution, but of the monstrous game they were entangled in. "What… what do you want, Sandra?"
"Your eyes. Your ears," Sandra said, her voice low and intense. "Reginald thinks you're broken, grateful, harmless. Use that. Listen when he speaks to you. Note who visits him. Observe anything unusual about Barton business dealings he might mention casually, thinking you're too stupid or scared to understand." She took another step, looming over her seated father. "The money that keeps you afloat? It flows only as long as I remain Paul Barton's wife, cooperating with *him*, not his father. And my cooperation depends entirely on the information *you* provide me."
Arthur sputtered. "You… you'd cut us off? Your own family?"
"I was cut off the moment you sold me to the Bartons, Father," Sandra replied, her voice icy. "This isn't about family. It's about survival. *Your* survival hinges on *my* survival and success against Reginald Barton. Help me bring him down, and you secure your future. Fail me…" She let the threat hang, cold and absolute. "Reginald discards tools that cease to be useful. Or that become liabilities."
The silence in the drawing-room was suffocating. The faded grandeur mocked their desperation. Evelyn stared at the decoded lines, then at her daughter. She saw not the pliant girl they'd sacrificed, but a woman forged in Blackwood's fire, wielding her own chains as weapons. Arthur looked shattered, the last remnants of his paternal authority crumbling to dust.
"What… what kind of information?" Evelyn asked, her voice barely a whisper, pragmatic survival instinct reasserting itself over shock.
"Anything," Sandra pressed. "Meetings with city officials he shouldn't be influencing. Mentions of 'problematic' individuals or businesses. Sudden changes in Barton company structure. Whispers about Eleanor Vance's whereabouts – anything." She fixed Evelyn with a hard stare. "You know how to listen, Mother. You know how to calculate risk. The greatest risk now is doing nothing."
Evelyn Middleton met her daughter's gaze. The fear was still there, deep and primal, but beneath it, a spark of cold calculation ignited. She glanced at her broken husband, then back at Sandra. Slowly, deliberately, she folded the damning journal excerpt and tucked it into her sleeve.
"We hear things," she murmured, her voice regaining a sliver of its old, steely composure. "People talk… carelessly… to those they consider beneath notice."
Arthur made a small, choked sound but said nothing. His silence was acquiescence.
Sandra nodded, a tight, grim satisfaction settling within her. It wasn't love. It wasn't loyalty. It was a transaction, cold and brutal, mirroring the one that had brought her here. But it was leverage.
"Use the usual courier for Barton correspondence," Sandra instructed, turning to leave. "Slip your notes inside. I'll know how to find them." She paused at the door, looking back at the shell of her former life, at the parents who had traded her for survival and were now being traded again. "Remember, your security depends on mine. Choose wisely."
She walked out, leaving the oppressive silence of the townhouse behind. The air outside, though city-stale, felt cleaner. She hadn't offered forgiveness. She hadn't sought reconciliation. She had weaponized their fear and desperation, turning them into reluctant spies in Reginald Barton's own court. It was a cruel gambit, born of necessity in a war without rules. As the Barton carriage carried her back towards the gothic fortress that was now her battleground, Sandra Middleton didn't feel like a daughter returning to her cage. She felt like a general deploying her assets. The pawn had become a player, and the game for Blackwood's soul had entered a new, treacherous phase. The parents who had sold her were now, ironically, her best hope of bringing down the man who had bought her. The path was fraught with peril, but Sandra walked it with her head high, the decoded journal's secrets and her parents' coerced loyalty her newfound arsenal.