No Longer A Pawn, Now A Queen

a

dy to fight back. My plan began to solidify, sharp and precise, in the crucible of my burning rage. I needed more evid

be a shaken observer

the area where Dyan lived. With a significant cash incentive, I arranged for a last-minute replacement cleaner for Dyan's mansion the next mo

on. My heart thrummed a frantic rhythm against my ribs, but my hands were steady. I presented the cleaning company' s paperwork, my ID, and a convincing s

ked, handing me a bucket and a cloth. "Do

ace. The master bedroom. Dya

t. And everywhere, photographs. On the bedside table, a silver-framed picture of Andres and Dyan on a beach, both tanned and laughing, Dyan heav

n a bed of velvet, were two wedding rings. And beneath them, a marriage certificate. Andres Estrada and Dyan Schneider. Mar

ime. My entire relationship with Andres, my engagement, my hopes fo

duvet. It was the same silk I had chosen for our hypothetical m

trada and Schneider names, hung above the fireplace. And then, a small, hand-painted ceramic plate, signed "Grandma Bernice." My "mother." Her distinc

ers at another maid. I seized my chance. I struck up a conversation, feigning a friendly curiosity about

andparents, indeed," she said with a sigh, wiping her hands on her apron. "Mr. Howard, he comes by tw

me in five years, except to discuss business or my latest

e mistress. Always bringing her special gifts, taking her shopping. Says Ms. Schneide

eart. Bernice, who had always subtly critiqued my clothes, my manners, my choices, h

d. The air felt thick, suffocating. I needed to ge

d. Mrs. Davies gasped. "They're back! They weren't supposed to be home for hours

shut with a soft click. The smell of spices and cleaning supplies filled my

home so early?" Dyan' s voice, a little whiny. "The s

ter, but the acoustics of t

harade. Having to hide. Pretending to be some disgraced nobod

almost finalized. Once that's done, and Ara signs off on the final designs – her designs, reme

et rid of her? She's becoming a liability. I saw her car lurk

old. My car. S

versary of her triumph' is next week. It's the perfect opportunity. A sedative in her drink, a convenient 'breakdown' from the stress of it all. She'll be perfectly c

a broken toy. They saw me as nothing more than a grateful, indebted fool to be manipulated and then discarded.

age certificate, the photos, the financial records. And

vies peered in, her eyes wide with fear. "They've go

l nod, a quick, whispered "thank you," and hurried o

, a voice cut through th

not from Alli

on the back porch, her eyes na

d the van into reverse, and sped away, leaving her furious face and the opulent ma