Chapter 3 - The Scent of Accelerant
On the tablet screen, high-resolution forensic photographs flickered into view.
They weren't official city records; they were private crime scene analyses stamped with independent European investigator seals.
The first photograph showed the basement utility room beneath our bedroom wing.
Charred copper pipes and melted floor joists revealed a distinct, V-shaped burn pattern rising directly from a central floor drain.
"Hydrocarbon accelerant," Dante explained, standing up and walking to the edge of my bed.
"Military-grade thermite paste, ignited by a remote radio frequency detonation unit."
My heart hammered frantically against my bruised ribs.
"Someone set the mansion on fire deliberately?"
"Not just the mansion," Dante corrected, swiping to the next image.
It was a screenshot of cell tower pings and text message traffic recovered from a private telecommunications switchboard.
The messages were sent from an untraceable burner phone to the automated security gate console at our Lake Forest estate.
Timestamp: 8:38 PM.
Command: Execute Perimeter Gate Override. Lock Master Suite Suite Doors. Disable Interior Sprinkler Valves.
Two minutes later, the mansion had erupted into an inferno.
"The fire was designed to look like a tragic accident," Dante murmured, his jaw clenching hard.
"A devastated billionaire mourns the loss of his rebellious wife who supposedly fell asleep with a scented candle during a marital spat."
"Vincent wouldn't burn me alive!" I gasped, shaking my head violently in denial.
"Vincent didn't send those commands," Dante agreed calmly, tapping the screen to reveal the financial routing behind the burner phone.
The account used to purchase the encrypted frequency detonator was registered to a boutique floral company in downtown Chicago.
A boutique owned exclusively by Sophia Reynolds.
"Vincent was just an arrogant pawn," Dante said, his dark eyes burning with fierce contempt.
"Sophia knew you were pregnant, Claire. She had an informant inside your obstetrician’s clinic. She orchestrated her birthday dinner, lured Vincent away, and ensured you would never walk out of that bedroom alive."
Nausea surged through my throat as the sheer monstrous magnitude of her deceit crashed over me.
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My baby had died because of a woman who wanted my husband's empire.
And my husband had locked the deadbolt himself, handing her the executioner's blade on a silver platter.
