Chapter 5 - THE GOVERNOR’S TOAST
Upstairs in the grand ballroom, the crystal champagne flutes clinked in unison as the state governor stood before the gathering of elite guests, raising his glass high.
“To innovation, to philanthropy, and most of all, to a man who embodies the very spirit of American enterprise—our host, Victor Rootes!”
Applause rippled through the room. Elegant women smiled radiantly; powerful men nodded in respectful approval. Standing beside Victor at the head of the mahogany banquet table was Eleanor Rootes—a stunning woman in a emerald-green silk dress, her diamond earrings catching every flicker of the chandelier light.
Victor smiled his trademark charismatic smile, stepping forward to accept the praise.
“Thank you, Governor, ladies and gentlemen,” Victor’s voice resonated warmly through the ballroom’s acoustic speakers. “Rootes Manor has stood for over a century as a monument to family, tradition, and enduring legacy. Everything we build here is designed to last—”
Creeeeeeeak.
The heavy oak double doors at the main entrance of the ballroom did not just open—they groaned open as if pushed by a heavy wind.
The music faltered. The applause died instantly.
Every head in the room turned toward the doorway.
Standing in the threshold was a figure out of a gothic nightmare. Wrapped in a tattered, mud-stained crimson dress, her wild silver hair framing a face carved from bone and famine, Catherine Rootes stood illuminated by the harsh foyer light.
Eleanor dropped her champagne glass. It shattered against the polished marble floor with a sound like a pistol shot.
Victor Rootes froze, the smile instantly vanishing from his face, replaced by a mask of sheer, unadulterated horror. His glass slipped from his fingers, amber scotch splashing across the expensive Persian rug.
For three endless seconds, the entire ballroom was dead silent. You could hear the distant ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.
Catherine stepped across the threshold, her bare, dirt-caked feet clicking softly against the marble.
She raised her head, looking directly at the man who had buried her alive.
“Good evening, husband,” Catherine’s voice echoed clearly across the silent hall. “Did you miss me?”
Whispers erupted like a swarm of angry hornets among the guests.
“Who is that?”
“Is she homeless? Security! Where is security?!”
“My God... look at her face... she looks like—”
Victor finally found his voice, though it sounded like it had been dragged over gravel.
“Get her out of here!” Victor roared, his face turning a mottled shade of purple. “Marcus! Security! Remove this lunatic from my house immediately!”
Three burly private security guards rushed forward from the side corridors, their hands reaching out to grab Catherine by the shoulders.
Before they could touch her, Catherine raised her hand, pointing a long, skeletal finger straight at Victor’s chest.
“Touch me, and the federal marshals waiting outside with my signed deposition will tear this entire corrupt empire down before midnight!” she shouted with terrifying authority.
The guards stopped dead in their tracks.
Victor stared at her, his composure completely shattering as the dreadful, impossible truth crashed down upon him.
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“Catherine...” he whispered, his lips trembling. “That’s impossible... you’re dead.”
“I was never dead, Victor,” Catherine stepped closer, her eyes blazing with vengeance. “You just forgot to check if the coffin had a pulse.”
