By morning, Anya was back to her quiet self—draped in neat linen, moving soundlessly through the corridors like a shadow stitched into the walls of the estate. She never rushed, never stumbled, and never missed her time in the kitchen.
She had a mission. One that required subtlety.
Today, it was the apples.
From the outside, they were pristine—crimson, glossy, freshly polished from the garden's basket. But in her private drawer, beneath a folded cloth and a false bottom, lay three vials—each labeled in faded ink.
One contained a mild sedative that clouded memory. Another, a hallucinogen extracted from an Eastern herb known to distort perception and weaken resolve. And the third? A slow-acting poison that left no trace unless paired with heat.
That last one was for later.
Anya worked in silence, slicing the apples into thin spirals. She dipped the edges into the sedative mix first, letting it soak only slightly—not enough to be detected by smell or taste, but just enough to soften the nerves.
She layered them carefully in a plate, drizzled them with honey, and added a sprig of mint.
She had learned from the best. Her former master, the one who taught her how to serve revenge in doses that felt like love.
As she approached Elora's room, she rehearsed her smile.
Gentle. Timid. Trustworthy.
She knocked lightly and entered. Elora was on the bed, flipping through old letters with a tired expression.
"I brought these from the garden," Anya said sweetly, placing the plate on the side table. "Apples with honey. They help ease anxiety."
Elora smiled, distracted. "Thank you."
She took one without much thought.
Anya watched her bite. Chew. Swallow.
Then she lowered her gaze.
"I've noticed you don't sleep well," Anya said.
Elora gave a quiet laugh. "Not exactly been the easiest season for peace."
"If you ever want a natural remedy," Anya continued, voice syrupy, "I could brew a tea for you. Something my grandmother used. It clears the mind."
Elora nodded. "Maybe tomorrow."
Anya bowed slightly and stepped out.
But behind that pleasant façade, her mind was calculating.
Elora had eaten one full slice.
Within thirty minutes, she would feel her body slightly heavier. Her thoughts would drift a little more. If Anya repeated this for three more days, Elora's nervous system would weaken—just enough to make her dizzy and off balance.
Then… she'd introduce the real thing.
The final dose. The silent one.
But not yet. First, Elora had to trust her fully.
Downstairs, Lucian was investigating the USB, talking to security.
Perfect.
Let him chase shadows.
Let her prepare the stage.
Meanwhile, Elora sat by her window, gazing outside. The apple had tasted strange—almost too sweet—but she chalked it up to the honey. A slight haze crept into her temples, like her brain was wrapped in a warm cloth.
She frowned.
Something wasn't right.
And the maid's eyes… why did they feel so familiar?
She looked down at the plate.
Then it hit her.
This was the second time in three days that Anya had offered her apples.
Absolutely — let's continue Chapter 15, diving deeper into the tension building between Elora and the maid, Anya, as suspicion begins to surface while Anya's manipulations grow bolder.
Elora stood slowly from the edge of her bed, the apple's taste still lingering on her tongue, its sweetness beginning to curdle in her thoughts.
She stared at the plate again.
It wasn't like her to be paranoid, but there was a pattern forming—and her gut was no longer willing to ignore it.
The first apple had been days ago, when she had mentioned her headaches. Anya had appeared with the same soft smile and offered her "something fresh from the garden." Elora had thought it kind—thought the girl was just attentive. But today's offering had come too soon after another restless night.
And now this warmth in her limbs… that wasn't normal.
She opened the drawer beside her bed and pulled out a small leather notebook. In it, she scribbled the word:
> "Apples. Two doses. Effects: Haze, dizziness."
She underlined the word doses.
If this was truly what she suspected, then it wasn't a mistake. It was preparation.
---
Down in the west wing, Anya returned to her small quarters—the smallest servant's room, nearest to the pantry, with only one window and a locked chest by the bed. She lit a small candle and pulled the drawer open.
Inside were notes—neatly kept records.
> Dose 1: Calm, minimal effect. Dose 2: Slower reaction time. Memory lapse observed. Progressing as planned.
She smiled to herself.
Elora was tougher than expected, but she had patience. She always had.
It was what made her a perfect fit for this kind of task. Her employer didn't want blood spilled on the marble. They wanted Elora silenced… convincingly. With no questions. No autopsy.
A quiet descent.
Trust first. Then obedience. Then… collapse.
---
But Elora wasn't as clouded as Anya hoped.
That night, she skipped dinner. Claimed she had a migraine. She pretended to be asleep when Anya entered with a cup of ginger tea.
She listened carefully, breathing steadily.
Anya walked to her bedside, lingered too long. Then placed the cup on the table beside the now-empty plate of fruit.
"Elora," she whispered, testing.
No answer.
The girl smiled to herself again. Quietly.
Then she slipped out.
Elora waited a full five minutes before opening her eyes.
The room swayed slightly.
She reached for the tea and took a cautious sniff. No unusual smell. But that meant little. Whoever Anya was, she wasn't new to the game.
Elora had lived long enough to know manipulation when she saw it.
She dumped the tea down the bathroom sink.
Then, locking the door behind her, she went to the hallway cabinet—the one that still had her father's old contacts and files from when he handled estate affairs.
She opened it and took out a small vial-testing strip he used back in his diplomatic days for food inspections.
She returned to her room and placed the test strip inside the tea cup Anya had left.
It reacted instantly.
Faint blue.
Not a poison… but a sedative compound. Possibly mild benzodiazepine. Enough to ease a person into drowsiness—and suggestibility.
A slow hand at the wheel.
Elora sat down on the edge of her bed, heart racing now—not from fear, but from strategy. She had just confirmed it:
Someone wanted her quiet.
And that someone was in the house.