Chapter 294
Chapter 294:
She smoothed it out against her apron and squinted at the itemized list.
It wasn’t a medical bill. It was an invoice for a “Custom Silicone Prosthetic – Second Trimester Fit” and “Theatrical Blood Packets (Viscous/Non-Staining p>
Mrs. Higgins froze.
There was no medical jargon here, only the undeniable proof of a performance. If the fetus required a silicone prop this early, there was no fetus. The Kensington heir was nothing more than rubber and straps.
The door to the hallway creaked.
Mrs. Higgins shoved the receipt into her own pocket, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She picked up the duster and attacked a porcelain shepherdess on the mantelpiece, her breathing shallow.
Ten minutes later, she stood in the drawing room.
Matriarch Beatrice sat in her high-backed wing chair, staring at the rain lashing against the window. The old woman looked smaller these days, her formidable presence eroded by scandals chipping away at the family name.
“Madam,” Mrs. Higgins said softly.
Beatrice didn’t turn. “What is it, Higgins? Is the girl complaining about the thread count again p>
“No, Madam.” Mrs. Higgins walked forward and placed the smoothed-out receipt on the small side table next to Beatrice’s tea. “I found this while checking Miss Seraphina’s coat pockets for the laundry. I thought… given the importance of the heir… you should see it p>
Beatrice’s eyes snapped to the paper. She picked it up with two fingers, as if it were contaminated. She read it once. Then she read it again.
Her face, a mask of expertly applied powder and rigid control, cracked. Her lips thinned into a line so white it looked like a scar.
“Theatrical supplies,” Beatrice whispered. The words hissed through her teeth. “She isn’t just lowborn. She is a fraud p>
“I am not a doctor, Madam,” Mrs. Higgins said, keeping her eyes on the floor. “But silicone bellies are not prescribed by obstetricians p>
Beatrice crushed the paper in her hand. “Bring her to me. The tearoom. Now p>
The command was absolute.
Mrs. Higgins nodded and backed out of the room. As she walked down the hallway, she pulled her burner phone from her apron pocket and typed a single message to a number saved only as “S p>
𝗥e𝖼𝗼mm𝘦𝗻d 𝗯е.𝖼𝗈𝗺 tо yo𝘂r f𝗿𝘪𝘦ո𝘥ѕ
Evidence found.
Twenty minutes later, the tearoom was a refrigerator. The heating was on, but the atmosphere was absolute zero.
Seraphina Miller walked in, clutching her stomach with both hands. She wore a loose cashmere cardigan that swallowed her frame, her face scrubbed clean of makeup to enhance the illusion of fragility. She looked like a bruised peach, soft and easily damaged.
“Grandmother Beatrice,” Seraphina said, her voice a wobble of unshed tears. “Mrs. Higgins said it was urgent. Is Liam okay? Has the stock dropped again p>
Beatrice sat at the head of the table. She didn’t gesture for Seraphina to sit. She simply stared at the girl’s midsection with the cold calculation of a butcher eyeing a cut of meat.
“Sit down,” Beatrice said.
Seraphina sat, her movements jerky. She sensed the shift in the air. The protection she had felt yesterday was gone, replaced by a predatory stillness.
“You went shopping on Tuesday,” Beatrice stated. It wasn’t a question.
Seraphina blinked, her pulse spiking. “I… yes. Just for some baby clothes. The nursery needs p>
“Did you buy clothes? Or did you buy a costume?” Beatrice cut her off.
Beatrice threw the crumpled receipt onto the table. It landed between the teapot and the sugar bowl.
“Stage props, Seraphina?” Beatrice said. “For the ‘Kensington Heir p>