Chapter 4 - The Poison In The Porridge
By Wednesday morning, the atmosphere in Winslow Manor had grown suffocating.
Ethan had left early for downtown Philadelphia to wine and dine two key board members whose votes he needed for Thursday's coup. That left Doreen and Megan alone in the house with the staff—and their favorite punching bag.
At 8:00 AM, the bedroom door unlocked.
Doreen entered, carrying a wooden tray. On it was a single bowl of grey, watery oatmeal and a glass of tap water. Her face was tight, her pearl necklace gleaming against her wrinkled throat like a badge of aristocratic superiority.
“Sit up,” Doreen commanded, setting the tray roughly on the vanity desk.
Sophie sat on the edge of the bed, head tilted, shoulders slumped, playing the broken bird. “Hungry,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes with a fist.
“Of course you’re hungry. You’re an animal,” Doreen sneered, crossing her arms. “Ethan is too soft on you. If it were up to me, you’d be sleeping in the stables. You made a fool out of me in front of the landscapers on Monday, you little wretch.”
Sophie kept her gaze locked on the oatmeal.
Her underworld instincts didn't just warn her about guns and knives; she had survived three separate poisoning attempts during her reign in Baltimore. She noticed the slight discoloration in the center of the oats—a faint, chalky residue that smelled faintly of bitter almonds and crushed sedatives.
Liquid Haloperidol mixed with crushed sleeping pills, Sophie diagnosed instantly. A cocktail designed to induce severe lethargy, slurred speech, and drooling, ensuring Avery would look utterly incapable of coherent thought if any unexpected visitor arrived.
“Eat it all,” Doreen said coldly. “Every drop. Or I’ll tell Ethan you bit me, and he won’t let you have any lights on tonight.”
Sophie reached out with a trembling hand, lifting the heavy silver spoon. She stirred the porridge slowly, watching the chalky powder dissolve into the hot cream.
“Good girl,” Doreen mocked. “See? You can be trained when you’re hungry enough.”
Megan strolled into the bedroom doorway, wearing one of Avery’s late mother’s diamond tennis bracelets on her wrist. She leaned against the jamb, scrolling through her phone. “Is she eating the slop?”
“She’s eating,” Doreen said smugly. “By noon, she won’t even be able to lift her head off the pillow. That’ll keep her quiet until the board meeting tomorrow.”
Sophie brought the spoon to her lips. She paused.
Suddenly, her eyes rolled upward. Her body stiffened into a rigid, violent arch.
“Avery?” Doreen’s tone shifted from arrogance to slight annoyance. “Stop playing games.”
Sophie let out a low, choking gasp. Her teeth clamped down hard on her own inner lip, drawing a thin line of bright red blood that dribbled down her chin. She kicked her legs out violently, knocking the breakfast tray off the desk with a deafening crash of shattered porcelain.
The drugged oatmeal splattered across the antique hardwood and Doreen’s imported Italian leather pumps.
“What is she doing?!” Megan screamed, jumping back into the hallway. “Is she having a stroke?!”
Sophie collapsed onto the floor, twitching convulsively, thrashing her arms and legs against the floorboards while letting white spittle and blood bubble at the corners of her mouth. She made horrifying, guttural noises from the back of her throat, clawing at her own neck.
“Call Ethan! Call the doctor!” Doreen panicked, her face draining of all color. “If she dies before the board vote tomorrow, the entire trust reverts to the state foundation! Marcus set up a dead-man's clause!”
Megan fumbled with her smartphone, her manicured fingers shaking violently. “I—I don't know the doctor's direct line!”
“In Ethan's study! The black Rolodex on his desk! Hurry, you stupid girl!” Doreen screamed, dropping to her knees beside Sophie, trying desperately to hold Sophie’s thrashing shoulders down. “Avery! Avery, breathe! Don't you dare die on this floor!”
Megan sprinted down the corridor toward Ethan’s private study on the third floor.
The moment Megan’s footsteps vanished around the staircase landing, Sophie’s convulsing stopped.
Her body went completely still.
Doreen froze, panting, her hands hovering over Avery’s shoulders. “Avery?”
Sophie’s eyes opened.
There was no confusion in them. No childlike terror. No developmental fog.
There was only the pitch-black, frozen abyss of Sophie Blake.
Before Doreen could even register the shift, Sophie’s right hand shot out like a striking viper. Her slender fingers clamped around Doreen’s throat with terrifying, inhuman strength, pinching the vagus nerve against the older woman's carotid artery.
Doreen’s breath caught in a sharp, terrified wheeze. Her eyes bulged. She tried to claw at Sophie’s fingers, but the grip was like a steel vise.
Sophie leaned in close, bringing her lips an inch from Doreen’s ear. When she spoke, her voice wasn't Avery’s timid, halting whisper. It was the smooth, gravelly, bone-chilling baritone of an underworld empress.
“You put sedatives in my food again, Doreen,” Sophie whispered, every word sharp as a straight razor. “And I will take that silver spoon and carve your vocal cords out through your neck while you sleep.”
Doreen stared at her in paralyzed, absolute terror. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly, tears of pure agony leaking from her eyes.
“Do you understand me?” Sophie squeezed slightly harder.
Doreen nodded frantically, gasping for air.
Sophie released her throat. Doreen tumbled backward, coughing and retching against the foot of the bed, clutching her bruised neck.
Sophie stood up gracefully, wiped the fake blood from her chin with the back of her sleeve, and smiled down at the trembling woman.
In Avery’s childish singsong voice, she said: “Avery feels all better now! Oatmeal was yucky!”
Megan came pounding back down the hallway, clutching a piece of paper. “I found the doctor’s number! What happened?!”
Megan skidded to a halt at the doorway.
Doreen was curled on the floor, weeping and hyperventilating, while Avery stood near the window, humming a cheerful tune and braiding the hair of an old porcelain doll.
“Doreen?” Megan asked, bewildered. “What’s wrong with you?”
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Doreen looked up at Megan, then looked at Sophie. Sophie turned her head slightly, offering Doreen a sweet, vacant smile while slowly drawing her thumb across her own neck in a silent, lethal promise.
Doreen shuddered violently. “N-nothing,” the matriarch stammered, her voice shaking uncontrollably. “Clean up... clean up the floor. I need to lie down.”
