From Blood Bank To Billionaire's Obsession

The next morning, the Long Island Copeland estate was suffocatingly quiet.

Alanis walked into the extravagant formal dining room wearing a simple gray tracksuit.

The massive flat-screen TV mounted on the wall was tuned to a national morning news network.

On the screen, a top-tier crisis PR executive hired by the Copeland Group was speaking rapidly.

"The video circulated last night is a textbook example of a malicious deepfake," the PR mouthpiece lied smoothly. "This is a minor misunderstanding between sisters regarding a fiancé, which was cruelly exaggerated by anonymous hackers."

The scrolling ticker at the bottom of the screen showed that the Copeland Group's stock had stabilized in pre-market trading. Capital always found a way to protect itself.

Alanis walked over to the long mahogany table. She pulled out a chair, sat down, and poured herself a cup of black coffee. Her face was entirely devoid of emotion.

Richard sat at the head of the table. His eyes were bloodshot from staying up all night managing the fallout.

He looked at Alanis. The panic from last night was gone, replaced by the cold, ruthless arrogance of a patriarch who had regained control of his empire.

"You are grounded indefinitely," Richard stated, his voice hard. "All your credit cards are canceled. If you do anything to jeopardize Bridgette's recital at the Lincoln Center next month, I will throw you out onto the street with nothing."

Alanis took a slow sip of her coffee. She didn't even blink at his threat.

The dining room doors swung open. Bridgette walked in, wearing a pristine white silk robe.

Her face was pale, but her eyes gleamed with the smug satisfaction of someone who knew her family's money had just saved her skin. She wasn't going to risk a direct confrontation today. She was far too calculating for that. Instead, she was going to play the grieving, forgiving sister, while executing a perfectly deniable 'accident'.

Bridgette walked over to the table, acting as if the brutal confrontation on Fifth Avenue had never happened.

She picked up a delicate bone china plate and used silver tongs to place a freshly baked croissant on it.

With a sickeningly sweet smile, Bridgette slid the plate across the polished wood toward Alanis.

"You must be exhausted from your little stunt last night, sister," Bridgette said, her voice dripping with fake concern. "Eat something. Keep your strength up."

Alanis lowered her coffee cup. Her eyes dropped to the pastry on the plate.

Alanis reached out, her fingers lightly brushing the surface of the croissant as if preparing to break it apart. The moment her skin made contact, her highly trained tactile senses registered an anomaly. The bottom layer of the flaky pastry was unnaturally damp and slightly sticky, the undeniable residue of a dissolved powder injected into the dough. She lifted the pastry slightly, bringing it just inches from her face. Beneath the overwhelming, rich scent of baked butter and yeast, her refined olfactory senses finally isolated a faint, sharp chemical bitterness.

Her brain rapidly accessed her own medical files—the records she had memorized during years of being treated as a resource.

She had a severe, lethal anaphylactic allergy to any form of almond extract. Her throat would close up in less than two minutes.

Bridgette knew this perfectly well. This wasn't a peace offering. It was an assassination attempt disguised as a tragic breakfast accident, a calculated move to eliminate the threat while playing the innocent victim of a kitchen mix-up.

Alanis slowly lifted her gaze. She stared at Bridgette with the cold, dead eyes of a mortician looking at a corpse.

She didn't say a word. She simply raised the back of her hand and casually swiped it sideways.

Smash.

The bone china plate flew off the table and shattered violently against the marble floor. The poisoned croissant rolled into the dust.

Bridgette let out a shrill scream and jumped back, her hip crashing into a chair.

Richard slammed his fists on the table, his face turning purple. "What the hell is wrong with you? Have you lost your mind?"

Alanis ignored him. She stood up, placing both hands flat on the mahogany table. She leaned forward, her presence suddenly filling the room with a suffocating pressure.

She locked eyes with Bridgette and spoke in a low, terrifying whisper that only the two of them understood.

"Your poison is cheap."