Chapter 11
Chapter 11:
Jocelyn gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white against the bone. She didn’t have the code for the main gate anymore, but she didn’t need it. She had a piece of paper in her purse that superseded codes.
She rolled down the window as the car idled before the massive iron gates. The security guard — a new hire she didn’t recognize — stepped out of the booth. He looked bored, his uniform slightly ill-fitting.
“Private property, miss,” he said, already turning back to his phone. “Turn around p>
Jocelyn didn’t blink. She held her ID and the lawyer’s letterhead against the window. The wind whipped her hair across her face, stinging her eyes, but she didn’t brush it away.
“Jocelyn Wolfe,” she said. Her voice was low, devoid of the tremor she felt in her stomach. “I am the legal owner of this estate as of this morning. Open the gate, or I call the police and report you for obstruction p>
The guard squinted at the ID, then at the letter. His eyes widened. The boredom vanished, replaced by a clumsy panic, and he scrambled for the keypad.
The iron gates groaned — a metallic shriek that echoed in the quiet morning air — and swung open.
Jocelyn drove through without looking at him. She kept her eyes fixed on the main house rising in the distance: a sprawling mansion of stone and ivy that looked beautiful from the outside and rotted from within.
She parked haphazardly by the fountain. The water in the basin was green with algae. Elouise had likely delegated the grounds budget to Robert, who was probably funneling it into whatever scheme he was running that month.
She got out and slammed the car door. The sound rang out like a gunshot.
The front door opened before she reached the steps. Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper, stood in the frame wringing her hands in her apron, her face pale.
𝗥еad 𝘧𝗿𝘰𝗺 𝘺o𝘶r 𝗉h𝗼ոe 𝘰𝗻
“Ms. Jocelyn,” Mrs. Gable whispered, glancing nervously toward the grand staircase. “You shouldn’t be here. Your mother is resting. And Ms. Aspen is — she’s occupied p>
“I’m not here for them,” Jocelyn said, brushing past her. The foyer smelled of lilies and expensive wax, a cloying scent that made bile rise in her throat. “I’m here for my father’s books p>
“But Ms. Aspen is in the East Wing,” Mrs. Gable stammered, stepping sideways to block the path to the stairs. “In your old room p>
Jocelyn stopped. Her foot hovered over the first step.
“In my room?” she repeated.
“She said the light was better,” Mrs. Gable said miserably.
Jocelyn didn’t say another word. She ascended the stairs, her heels clicking in a steady rhythm on the marble. Each step was a drumbeat of rising fury — not the hot, tearful anger of heartbreak, but something colder. Clinical.