Chapter 3 - The Midnight Hour
By nine o'clock that evening, the grand dining room of the Armand estate was supposed to be filled with the city's most influential financial trustees. Instead, it was occupied by two plainclothes investigators and a paramedic team.
Abigail sat on the plush sofa in the living room, a warm blanket draped over her shoulders. A female paramedic was gently checking her blood pressure while Rowan stood nearby, his face etched with an anxiety that no business crisis had ever managed to produce.
“Your blood pressure is elevated, Mrs. Armand, but the baby’s heart rate is stable,” the paramedic said, offering a reassuring smile. “The contractions you felt were likely Braxton Hicks brought on by extreme physical and emotional stress. But you need absolute bed rest. No exceptions.”
“Thank you,” Abigail whispered, letting out a breath she felt she’d been holding for six weeks.
Rowan walked the paramedics to the door, speaking to them in low tones before returning to the living room. He sat beside her, gently taking her hand. His fingers were trembling—a rare sign of vulnerability from a man who prided himself on absolute control.
“I’m so sorry, Abby,” he said, his voice cracking. “I should have seen it. I should have come home sooner. When you told me you were just tired... I should have known.”
“She was clever, Rowan,” Abigail said, leaning her head against his shoulder. “She controlled the house staff. She intercepted my mail. She told the servants I was suffering from severe prenatal depression and that she was managing my care on medical advice. They thought they were helping her protect me.”
“And Lena?”
“Lena was the only one who realized something was wrong when Celeste refused to let me call our obstetrician,” Abigail said. “She risked her job to help me get the physical files out of Celeste’s locked study. We hid them in the baby’s nursery, inside the lining of the crib.”
A shadow fell over the doorway. Detective Vance, the lead investigator, walked into the room, holding a plastic evidence bag containing Celeste’s personal iPad and several financial ledgers.
“Mr. Armand, Mrs. Armand,” Vance said, nodding respectfully. “We’ve placed Celeste Armand under arrest for grand larceny, embezzlement, and coercive control. Given the evidence of physical restraint and withholding of medical care, the DA is looking at a substantial felony package. She’s being booked as we speak.”
Rowan’s jaw clenched. “Ensure she doesn't get bail.”
“With the flight risk and the sheer volume of assets she’s accused of moving offshore? Her passport is flagged, and she’s being held without bond until her arraignment on Monday,” Vance assured him. “But we’ll need Mrs. Armand’s full testimony when she’s medically cleared.”
“She will provide it,” Rowan said, his grip tightening protectively around Abigail’s hand. “But right now, my wife needs rest.”
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As the detective left, the house fell into an unfamiliar, profound silence. The oppressive weight that had hung over the estate for six weeks had evaporated, leaving behind a clean, quiet space.
But as Abigail looked out the tall windows into the dark, rainy night, she knew the battle wasn't fully over. Celeste was dangerous, and a cornered Armand would not go down without trying to burn everything down with her.
