To acquire solid evidence and see Susan and Roman's cruelty for what it really was, I installed hidden cameras in Dad's bedroom, the living room, and even the kitchen—4k resolution, crystal-clear audio.

The next day at work, I sat in my large office chair and opened the surveillance feed on my phone.

On the screen, Susan was carrying a bowl into Dad's room. That was the kingroot soup I had specifically told her to prepare that morning.

She walked to the bedside and glanced at Dad, the caring mask she wore in front of me long gone. In its place was a look of pure disgust and malice that made my stomach turn.

"You old thing. All you ever do is sleep!" she grumbled, pouring the kingroot soup into an insulated bottle she carried with her. I immediately recognized that it was the same bottle she used for Roman, the one I had seen on the livestream.

Then, she pulled a bottle of sleeping pills from her pocket, shook out two, crushed them, and mixed the powder into a bowl of pitifully watery porridge.

She sneered. "Kingroot soup? You don't deserve that. Just die and stop wasting my time!"

Roughly, she grabbed Dad by the chin and forced his mouth open, pouring the drugged porridge down his throat. He choked and made hoarse, gurgling sounds, instinctively trying to struggle as the liquid went down.

Susan didn't hesitate to slap his withered shoulder. "Stop moving and just drink it while I'm being nice! My son is still young and needs all the nourishment he can get.

"What do you, a crippled geezer, need from this good stuff? Once you die, everything in this house will belong to my son and me, anyway!"

On my end of the feed, I stared at the screen without blinking. My nails dug into my palm, nearly breaking the skin. I felt the pain as much as I felt it in my chest.

I had never imagined that humanity could sink this low. This wasn't greed anymore. This was murder. Susan was slowly killing Dad, milking that last bit of value out of him to feed her useless, man-child of a son.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, forcing down the urge to do something irrational.

Then, I picked up my phone and dialed a number. It was an old friend of mine, someone who now ran one of the largest farms in the country.

My voice was unnervingly calm. "Hey, Ryan. Do you have any aphrodisiacs? The kind you use on breeding bulls, where just a few grams can drive a multi-ton animal insane."

Ryan Manson was silent for a few seconds before asking dubiously, "What do you need that for? That stuff is banned. Too much of it can kill someone."

"Oh, it won't." I looked at Susan's twisted face on the surveillance feed and said deliberately, "I just want to buy a couple of animals a good drink."

Ryan was efficient and fast. That very afternoon, I had the package in hand. There was no label, just a clear sealed bag filled with pale pink powder.

"They call it Eros Flame on the black market," he said while handing it to me, his expression complicated. "Even licensed vets wouldn't dare use it casually. It's for breeding bulls with no libido, essentially.

"It acts directly on the central nervous system, shuts down reason, and blows primal desire completely out of control. A few grams is enough to keep a thousand-pound bull in heat for three days."

I took the package and smiled. "Thanks."

When I got home, I poured the entire packet into a bottle of Romanee-Conti. The powder dissolved the instant it touched the wine. The dark red liquid thickened, almost crimson, like molten lava starting to boil.

A strange, sweet, metallic scent spread through the air. It was sharp and invasive. Just a whiff, and one could feel their skin crawling and their heart pounding.

I gently swirled the bottle and watched the eerie red liquid move inside. I smiled in satisfaction. This was no longer wine, but a ticket straight to hell.

That evening, Susan was busy in the kitchen. I deliberately locked the wine bottle into the most visible glass cabinet in the living room in front of her.

"Ms. Miller," I called out.

She immediately wiped her hands and hurried over, her eyes glued to the wine bottle as if pulled by a magnet. "Oh, what's that, Ms. Lawson?"

"This is a 1945 Romanee-Conti," I said evenly. "I picked it up at a recent auction. One bottle is worth two million dollars."

As I spoke, I deliberately placed the key on top of the shoe cabinet by the door, a spot she could easily reach just by standing on her toes.

Her throat bobbed hard. I clearly heard her swallow—the sound of greed and barely contained impatience. I knew the fish had taken the bait.

For people like Susan and Roman, the temptation intensified the more expensive something was. Roman, especially, relied on flashy livestream stunts to draw viewers. To him, this bottle of wine was a fatal lure.

Late into the night, I lay on the bed with a cooling face mask and watched the surveillance feed.

The living room was pitch-black, but a sneaky figure crept into the foyer, tiptoed, and acquired the key. Then, she carefully unlocked the glass cabinet.

With the help of the moonlight filtering in, I saw Susan holding the red wine with a look of crazed triumph. She acted no differently than a thief, stuffing the bottle into her bag and sneaking out of the house.

I watched her retreating figure and let her be. In fact, I even wanted to applaud her.

The show was finally about to begin.