Rosaniah remembered clearly that her husband could not walk at all.
That was what everyone said. What the doctors said. What the family insisted on. He had been wheelchair-bound for years, weak and fragile, kept alive by medicine and careful routines. His room was treated like a sealed space, quiet and protected.
No one was allowed to enter without permission.
Especially not at night.
The memory did nothing to calm her.
Rosaniah sat on the edge of her bed, her hands folded on her lap. The soft lamp beside her cast a dim light across the room. Her eyes kept drifting to the wall that separated her from her husband's bedroom.
It was silent.
Once inside, it was impossible to hear anything from that room. Among all the rooms in the mansion, his was the only one fully soundproof. Thick walls and heavy doors. Even screams would never escape.
That had always been the explanation.
Privacy. Health. Peace.
Tonight, the reason felt thin.
Rosaniah tried to recall what she had heard earlier. The footsteps, the pause, and the door opening. Her mind replayed it again and again, searching for a mistake.
Maybe it was Aaron.
Maybe it was a nurse.
Maybe she imagined it.
Still, her chest felt tight.
She lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The room felt larger than before, the quiet pressing down on her ears. She picked up her phone, scrolled through messages she did not read, then locked the screen again.
Sleep did not come easily.
When it finally did, it was shallow and restless.
-
The ringing of her phone pulled her out of sleep.
Rosaniah reached for it blindly, her head heavy, her body slow to respond. The screen showed her manager's name.
She answered.
"Rosaniah," he said at once. His voice was sharp, tense. "Are you awake?"
"Yes," she replied, sitting up. "What's wrong?"
There was a pause.
"Your stepsister is dead."
The words did not make sense at first.
"What?" Rosaniah asked.
"She was found early this morning," he continued. "The report says suicide."
Rosaniah's grip tightened around the phone. Her heart began to race.
"That's not possible," she said quietly.
"I know," he replied. "But that's what all the major stations are saying."
Her mind went blank.
Mauricia's face flashed before her eyes. Drunk, angry, laughing, screaming, and alive.
Rosaniah swung her legs off the bed and stood, the room spinning slightly.
"How?" she asked.
"Details are vague," he said. "They're saying she jumped. No note mentioned so far."
Rosaniah swallowed hard. She did not cry. She did not scream. She simply stood there, holding the phone, as if the floor beneath her might disappear. By the time the call ended, her hands were shaking.
She turned on the television.
One channel after another showed the same headline. The same photo. Mauricia smiling at a past event, edited brighter than real life.
TRAGIC END OF A RISING STAR.
FAMILY CONFLICT SUSPECTED.
PRESSURE AND SCANDAL LEAD TO SUICIDE.
The words blurred together.
Rosaniah sat down slowly. She did not doubt the news itself. Every major station reported it. Every platform repeated the same story, the same timeline, the same cause of death.
It was real.
Mauricia was dead.
Yet Rosaniah could not believe it was so simple.
Mauricia was cruel, bitter, and loud. But she was not weak.
She feared failure, not life. She wanted attention, not silence. Even in anger, she fought to be seen.
Rosaniah pressed her fingers against her temples.
Something was wrong.
She changed the channel again.
Then again.
Until one unfamiliar logo appeared.
A small station, new and barely known.
The anchor's tone was different, lower, and careful.
"While mainstream media reports suicide," the anchor said, "our sources suggest a different possibility."
Rosaniah leaned closer to the screen.
"There are inconsistencies in the scene," the anchor continued. "No witnesses. Missing footage. And an unnamed source from law enforcement claims the evidence does not fully support suicide."
Rosaniah's breath caught.
The screen changed to a blurred image of a dark street.
The anchor spoke again. "Some speculate the involvement of an external force. A name has begun circulating online."
The anchor paused.
Then said it.
"The country's most notorious underground leader."
Rosaniah's heart dropped.
The screen showed no face. Only shadows. A silhouette captured from far away, impossible to identify.
"A man rumored to control an empire built on fear," the anchor said. "A figure rarely seen, and never confirmed."
The report ended quickly.
No follow-up.
No name spoken aloud.
Rosaniah turned off the television.
The room felt cold.
Her mind returned to the party, to the slap, and to Mauricia's words.
To the way she had laughed as if she had nothing left to lose.
Three days.
Only three days had passed.
Rosaniah stood and walked to the window. Outside, the mansion grounds were calm. Sunlight touched the garden paths. Birds moved between trees as if nothing had changed.
Inside the house, silence ruled.
She left her room and stepped into the hallway. The door to her husband's room was closed, just as it always was. Guards were nowhere in sight. No nurses passed by.
She stood there for a moment, staring at the door.
Her chest felt tight.
The soundproof room.
The footsteps last night.
The news this morning.
A thought crossed her mind, sharp and unwanted.
She shook her head.
No. That was impossible.
She turned away and went downstairs.
Aaron stood near the dining area, calm as ever.
"Good morning, madam," he said.
"Good morning," she replied. Her voice sounded distant to her own ears.
"Would you like breakfast?"
"Later," she said. Then hesitated. "Uncle Aaron… was there anything unusual last night?"
He looked at her, his expression unchanged. "No, madam."
She studied his face, searching for something. "Did anyone visit the house?"
"No one," he answered. "Everything was quiet."
Rosaniah nodded.
She believed him.
And yet, doubt lingered.
She returned to her room and sat down, her phone buzzing again with messages she did not open. Her manager. Unknown numbers. News alerts.
She ignored them all.
Her gaze drifted once more to the wall beside her bed.
To the room beyond it.
A room from which no sound could escape.
A room that hid a man the world believed was weak and dying.
Rosaniah wrapped her arms around herself.
Outside, somewhere beyond the mansion walls, the city buzzed with fear and rumors.
And somewhere within this house, something moved quietly.
Watching...
Waiting...
And for the first time since signing the contract, Rosaniah felt certain of one thing.
The truth was far closer than she wanted to believe.
Who killed... Mauricia?