I stepped out of my room, my heels clicking softly against the polished floor, each sound echoing like a heartbeat. I walked down the stairs like a queen I was—gentle, controlled, every step deliberate, counted, careful not to falter. The marble felt cold under my feet, smooth and hard, a perfect contrast to the fire burning inside me. My chest was tight, my pulse quickened, but my face stayed calm. I moved with precision, aware of every eye that followed me, every whisper, every expectation.
At the bottom of the stairs, they were all there. Waiting. Watching. The tension hit me before I even saw them properly. Mark's mother stood at the edge of the room, her eyes sharp and cold. She stared at me like I was a threat she needed to erase from existence, like I was some kind of shadow that didn't belong. I could feel her gaze crawling over me, judging me, measuring me, trying to find the crack, the weak point she could exploit.
The lawyer sat stiffly, his expression unreadable, like he had practiced neutrality for this moment a thousand times. I couldn't place what emotion hid behind his eyes. Was it surprise? Curiosity? Disdain? I couldn't tell.
Then there was Robert. That evil grin. Only I could see it for what it really was—dark, sharp, predatory. It made my stomach twist instantly, a cold, sudden drop. That smile said everything he never said aloud. He was waiting. Waiting for me to slip, to show weakness, to make a mistake. My hand twitched slightly, but I kept it still at my side.
Mark's father sat there too, expressionless. The old man I thought I knew. His face was calm, a neutral mask. But I had learned long ago not to trust his quiet. Sometimes, the calmest ones are the most dangerous. I could feel his eyes on me, measuring, calculating. Every second stretched, thick with tension.
They all stared at me as I descended the final steps. The room felt heavy, like the air had been thickened by anticipation and resentment. I could hear my own breathing, steady and soft, trying to match the calm exterior I was forcing myself to hold.
"Look who finally shows up," my mother-in-law's voice sliced through the silence, sharp and venomous. Her tone was mocking, loaded with contempt, as if I owed her an explanation for existing in the same room.
I knew better than to respond. I didn't glance at her, didn't react. Her words were meant to provoke, to draw me into her trap. I walked past her without a flicker of hesitation, moving toward the empty chair across from Robert. My eyes caught his again, that same nasty grin, and I felt the familiar heat rise in my stomach.
He adjusted the chair slightly, a subtle signal for me to sit. His movements were deliberate, careful, measured—like he thought he was charming me, like he thought I could be swayed.
"That wasn't necessarily," I whispered softly, my voice calm, low, almost a murmur. "I am only being nice, darling."
His grin didn't falter. He cleared his throat after that, forcing himself back into composure. Then, without another word, he signaled for the will to be read.
I sat down slowly, deliberately, my back straight, hands resting lightly on my lap. The chair felt cold and solid beneath me, grounding me in the moment, anchoring me to myself while the storm of tension swirled around us. I could feel their eyes on me, sharp and measuring, each one trying to dissect my emotions, trying to find the exact moment I might falter.
The room was quiet, thick with anticipation. The faint ticking of a clock somewhere behind me sounded louder than it should have. I could feel it in my chest, every beat amplifying the anxiety, the anticipation, the silent threat lingering in the air.
I glanced at Mark's mother again. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her eyes cold and calculating. She was ready to pounce, to accuse, to assert control over the room, over me. I could see her fingers tighten against the arms of her chair, knuckles white. She hated me. That was clear. But beneath it, I could see the careful control, the calculated calm that had always been her armor. She wasn't going to make a scene—not yet.
Robert's grin remained. His eyes flickered over the lawyer, the documents on the table, and finally settled back on me. Every second I held his gaze, I felt the tension coil tighter in my stomach. That grin wasn't just smug—it was dangerous, sharp, like a knife waiting for the right moment to strike.
I looked past him to Mark's father. Expressionless. Neutral. But I knew him. I had seen that quiet patience before. It didn't mean he was indifferent. It meant he was calculating, observing, waiting for the right moment. I could feel it, like a cold brush of air along my spine.
The lawyer cleared his throat and finally began. His voice was calm, practiced, smooth. He flipped through papers slowly, deliberately, letting the weight of the moment sink in. I felt the gravity in the room tighten further, pressing down on me, forcing me to steel myself.
I adjusted my posture again, back straight, shoulders firm, eyes focused. Every instinct screamed at me to stay sharp, to watch, to anticipate. I could feel my pulse quicken, my fingers twitch slightly, but I held them still. My lips pressed together in a thin line, hiding the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions that threatened to spill over.
I imagined Mark standing behind me, his hand brushing lightly against my shoulder, grounding me, reminding me to stay calm, to stay composed. The image was fleeting but comforting, a ghost of strength I could cling to as the lawyer began to speak my husband's name, the papers rustling softly in his hands.
Every word, every pause, every flick of a pen felt monumental. I could sense the tension radiating from every corner of the room. Mark's mother, Robert, his father, even the lawyer—they were all waiting, testing, observing. I was ready.
I felt my chest tighten again, the familiar storm of adrenaline and anger mingling with grief and anticipation. The diary, still hidden upstairs, whispered in my mind. Whoever had tampered with it—whoever had tried to mislead me—would not get away with it. I clenched my hands in my lap, nails pressing into the fabric of my dress, grounding myself, keeping the control I needed.
I took a slow, deep breath, letting it out softly. I felt the weight of the room pressing down, but I refused to let it crush me. I was standing tall, moving deliberately, commanding my own presence even in a room filled with eyes that wanted to see me falter.
Robert's gaze met mine again, and I didn't flinch. I held it, cold and steady, daring him to test me. The briefest flicker of surprise crossed his features before he masked it with his usual smile, but I had seen it. I knew what it meant.
The lawyer finally signaled, ready to start reading the will. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for each word, each line to land like a hammer. I felt the heat rise in my chest, my fingers tightening, every nerve on alert.
And I reminded myself, silently, that I was ready. I was prepared. Every step, every glance, every calculation I had made in the last few days led to this moment. I would not falter. I would not break. I was Alexa, and I would face this storm like the queen I was meant to be.