The Harrington estate shone that evening like a theater where every character knew exactly when to smile and when to be silent.
But no one suspected that the performance would end in tragedy.
Beatrice Harrington—sixty-three years old, perfectly poised, her diamond earrings glittering as if trying to offset her morality.
Elena, his daughter-in-law, eight months pregnant, sat across from him in a delicate silk dress, almost a fragile light among the shadows spread across the marble floor.
Christopher, her husband, was tense at the head of the table. The red of the wine in his glass reminded him of the blood that would only appear later.
Advertisements
At the beginning of the dinner, everything went according to the usual order.
Toasts, compliments, forced laughter.
But the air slowly grew heavy, like silk that suffocates as it caresses.
“Elena, my dear,” Beatrice said in a tinkling voice, “how beautiful your dress is… if a little… tight, don’t you think?”
Elena just smiled. “The baby loves to feel me move.”
Beatrice’s lips quivered. “We hope he’ll be as perfect as his father.”
The words were soft, but the intention behind them was steely.
Christopher muttered something softly, but he didn’t say anything.
He had always known that his mother’s battles could not be won, only survived.
By the middle of the evening, the atmosphere was already vibrating.
Beatrice’s words hit Elena like tiny pinpricks.
The guests were embarrassed, but no one dared to intervene.
Then the moment arrived.
Elena stood up to help one of the servers who had almost dropped her tray.
There was nothing dramatic about the gesture—just kindness, reflex.
As she turned to sit down, Beatrice’s bejeweled hand barely touched the back of the chair… and pulled.
The chair slid.
Elena fell back.
A moment of silence, then a dull thud.
And then—that scream.
“My baby!”
Her voice broke the light of the chandeliers.
A red stain spread across the marble floor.
Christopher dropped to his knees beside her, the guests watching, frozen.
“An ambulance! Now!” he cried, his voice echoing with despair.
Beatrice jumped up, her face turning white. “I… I didn’t mean to…”
But the smile at the corner of her mouth gave it away.
It wasn’t an accident. It never had been.
Long hours passed in the hospital.
Christopher sat in the waiting room, his hands digging into his hair.
Beatrice watched her son silently, then stepped forward.
“I think we’ve all made mistakes,” she said quietly.
Christopher looked up.
“If anything happens to them, it won’t be something you’ll regret.”
The woman stepped back. Her eyes flashed.
But before she could answer, the doctor appeared.
“The baby is alive. Elena is too. But…” he paused. “We need to investigate how such an injury could have occurred. We found… anti-slip liquid on the floor. Someone had dripped something under the leg of the chair.”
Beatrice’s face contorted.
Christopher looked at her, and the silence said it all.
Two days later, Elena came to.
Her stomach was bandaged, her face a mixture of pain and anger.
“Our baby is alive,” Christopher said, tears on his tongue. “A boy.”
Elena nodded. “What should we call him?”
“Maybe… Gabriel. The angel who brought you back.”
The woman smiled. Then she closed her eyes and added quietly,
“We need to know what your mother wanted.”
A week later, Elena returned to the Harrington estate.
There was no fear in her. Only determination.
Beatrice was sitting in the library when she entered.
“You look good,” he said coolly.
“Yes. Although few can say they’ve survived their mother-in-law.”
Beatrice’s eyes lit up.
“Let’s not get dramatic. It was an accident.”
Elena took out a small black envelope.
“That’s interesting, because the police say the liquid they found on the floor is an ingredient in your perfume. The rare, unique one that only you order from Paris.”
Beatrice flinched.
“That’s… nonsense!”
“Not so much,” Elena continued. “Especially when you consider the shipping tracking. Your last order… arrived exactly the morning of dinner.”
Silence.
Beatrice’s face turned almost to stone.
“What do you want?” he finally asked.
“The truth. And an offer.”
Elena placed a file on the table.
“The house, the estate, everything is transferred to our names.” Otherwise, I’ll release the police report—and the security footage the maid had saved from that night.
Beatrice’s mouth went dry.
“You think you’re going to take everything from me?”
Elena leaned forward.
“No. Just what you stole from your family.”
Three months later, the Harrington estate was shining again.
But now Elena was at the head of the table.
Christopher held baby Gabriel in his arms as the guests smiled and toasted.
The house was orderly and warm.
Only under the old family portrait on the wall was a black-and-white photograph: Beatrice, young, her eyes icy cold.
No one knew where she had gone.
One morning, her car disappeared from the garage, and all that was found along the shore was her silk scarf.
The police said it had been an accident.
But Elena knew: Beatrice was not the kind of woman who died easily.
And indeed—sometimes, when she woke at night, she would hear soft footsteps echoing in the corridors below the house.
The curtain beside her child’s cradle would move, as if someone were watching from outside.
Christopher had once said,
“It’s just the wind.”
But Elena had always said the same thing:
“No. It’s a memory. It’s from a mother-in-law who could never let go of anything.”
And one day, when little Gabriel spoke for the first time, his first word wasn’t “mother.”