Sophia's heels clicked on the marble floor as she ran, her heart pounding as if it would burst. Behind her, the office door opened with a soft click.
"Hello?" Richard's voice cut through the silence. "Is anyone there?"
She ran into the nearest doorway—a supply closet—and pressed against the wall, breathing hard. Her hands shook as she replayed the words in her mind.
Her parents weren't in an accident.
Richard planned to kill her.
In three weeks.
Leather-soled footsteps came closer. Slow and careful. He was checking every door.
"Probably just building maintenance," Jessica's voice murmured, faint through the office walls. "Come back. We only have twenty more minutes before your next meeting."
Sophia held her breath until the footsteps faded. When she moved, the office was quiet again, except for muffled sounds behind Richard's closed door.
She reached the parking garage on pure adrenaline. Once inside the car, reality hit her, she was trapped, completely.
Going to the police wasn't an option. Who would believe her? A housewife saying her husband wanted to kill her? Richard was respected; she'd just seem like a "nervous, emotional" wife, exactly how he'd make it look
Running was impossible. He controlled all their money and accounts. Her credit cards, her access—everything went through him. Even if she tried to get cash or book a flight, he'd know right away..
She couldn't trust anyone. Jessica, her closest friend, was betraying her. Who else in their circle could she really count on?
Hands trembling, she started the car, mind racing. Alone. Completely alone.
The penthouse felt cold and empty, perfect but never like home. Her phone buzzed. A text from Jessica: "Had a great time at coffee! Can't wait for you to meet my mystery man. Love you! 💕"
Her stomach sank. Love and heart emojis… while planning her murder.
Another buzz. Richard: Working late tonight. Don't wait up.
Of course. He had plans. Murder plans.
Sophia poured wine with trembling hands, watching the sun set over Manhattan. Out there, people lived real lives. Hers was a lie.
The glass slipped from her hands and broke on the marble floor, the red wine spreading like blood.
As she knelt to clean it up, something caught her eye: a tiny device, tucked under the coffee table. A bug. She had seen enough spy movies to recognize one.
Panic flared. She began scanning the living room. Another device behind the television. Another behind the bookshelf. How long had they been listening? Her private conversations, her calls, every vulnerable moment monitored.
The bedroom revealed more. Lamp, headboard, jewelry box. Every room compromised.
But the study was the worst.
A manila folder lay on the desk: S. Martinez – Psychological Profile. Inside were photos from college, early dates, private moments, and fake psychiatric reports saying she was unstable and suicidal.
At the bottom, a death certificate. Her death certificate. Dated two weeks from now. Cause of death: suicide by overdose.
They hadn't just decided to kill her—they'd been planning it for years, leaving a paper trail to make it seem like it had to happen.
Her hands shook as she went through the folder. Then a business card fell out: Vincent Romano – Private Investigator.
Her parents' murderers. The same last name.
Footsteps. Richard's voice, low and urgent, reached her.
"I don't care what it costs. I want it done this week. She's getting suspicious."
Her blood turned to ice. He knew. Somehow, he knew she'd overheard.
The study door was open. She was trapped. Richard's footsteps approached.
""Make it look real," he said. "Poor, unstable wife finally gives in to her depression. Very tragic. Very believable."
Sophia's eyes search
ed for another way out. There was none. The handle started to turn.