Relief washed over her, fleeting and dangerous. She allowed the mask of obedience to slip, replaced instantly by a cold, unreadable expression. A sheen of sweat clung to her back, and her heart thumped with the realization of the razor-thin line she was walking.
Theodore Bolton was not merely a cruel brother; he was a predator in a family of predators. The original Cassandra had barely interacted with him—luckily. But what would happen if he suspected the truth? If he knew that she, the seemingly fragile little sister, was not herself but something far more vengeful, far more cunning?
Cassandra's mind raced over the morning's events, dissecting them with surgical precision. Theodore's unusual visit, his sudden "concern," the carefully orchestrated food—it all hinted at something deeper, something dangerous.
Was he suspicious? Or was this a trap, testing her limits, probing for the faintest flicker of deception?
Her lips curved into a careful, innocent smile as she set herself to eat, hiding the storm of thoughts behind it. Survival here required patience, calculation, and the perfect performance of sweet obedience. And Cassandra Bolton had long since learned to play the role better than anyone could imagine.
Cassandra Bolton pondered deeply as she pulled out a handful of long silver needles—the spoils of her not-so-subtle ransacking spree yesterday.
To anyone else, they were just needles. To her, they were salvation in metallic form. In the House of Bolton—where the very carpets probably had more murder attempts stitched into them than patterns—it was almost adorable to find something so practical. Like discovering a spoon in a room full of guillotines.
Smiling to herself, she dipped the needles into every steaming dish and bowl. Only one soup hissed with betrayal, the spoon turning black at the tip. Ah, poison—the Bolton family seasoning. Cassandra didn't even blink. She gobbled down every safe dish like a feral street dog at a feast, then—because she wasn't completely stupid—sampled the poisoned soup anyway. Just a spoonful. Enough to remind herself that death had better move faster if it wanted to catch her. Then, with the finesse of a con artist, she poured half of it into the other bowls, arranging the crime scene like a painter staging a masterpiece of deception.
But the thought nagged her: her body was fragile. Pathetically so. One spoon of poison and she'd probably keel over like a fainting goat. That wasn't right. Not in a family like hers.
The Boltons trained their children young—blood, fire, and toxins as daily bread. Yet she, the daughter of the House, had the immune system of a daisy in winter. Why? Who had decided she should stay soft, weak, and human in a nest of vipers? Suspicion coiled in her stomach like a second poison.
The door suddenly flew open.
In walked Theodore Bolton, fresh from his shower, wearing a black tee that clung to his chest, loose pants slung indecently low, and golden hair dripping like he'd just murdered Apollo and stolen the sun for himself. He carried a rectangular box like it was a weapon, or worse—medicine.
His sharp eyes immediately swept the table. He stopped at the half-eaten bowl of poison soup. His lips twitched, not with amusement but with something far darker, as though wondering whether his little sister was dumb, suicidal, or both.
Without a word, he strode over, pressed his hand against her feverish forehead, and with the casual cruelty of someone manhandling a pet chicken, pried her jaws open and shoved a thermometer inside. Cassandra nearly gagged on the metal.
Do I look like some barnyard animal? She thought furiously. But then again, to a Bolton, livestock probably received better care.
"Forty-one degrees," Theodore muttered, mouth twisting as if mocking both her fever and her brain.
Lovely.
A fever high enough to fry an egg—or worse, fry her thoughts into scrambled nonsense. And what good was a girl to the Boltons if she turned into a slack-jawed idiot drooling in the halls mindlessly?