Chapter 4
Refusing to be banished to the service gates, Maya spent the afternoon exploring the labyrinthine hallways of the historic mansion, guided by an instinctive curiosity rather than hospitality. Eleanor had given her free rein of the estate, desperate to repair a lifetime of stolen moments in the span of a single afternoon. In the third-floor east wing, past rows of dusty oil portraits of stern Sterling ancestors, Maya discovered a heavy oak door that stood slightly ajar.
Pushing it open, she found a private study that looked untouched by modern renovation. Leather-bound ledgers filled the bookshelves, alongside old reel-to-reel tape decks and stacks of yellowed correspondence. On the central mahogany desk sat a locked leather-bound diary with a silver clasp identical to the mechanism on her jade pendant.
A soft rustle at the doorway made her turn. Eleanor stood there, holding a silver tray with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. Her eyes softened as she saw what Maya was looking at.
"That was your grandfather’s private office," Eleanor said, walking in and setting the tray down gently. "He was the one who built the shipping empire, but he was also the one who kept the family’s darkest ledgers. Richard thought he burned all these documents when he took over the company."
Maya approached the desk, her fingers tracing the cold metal clasp of the diary. "Is this where the truth is?"
"Likely," Eleanor whispered, sitting down in the high-backed leather chair. She looked tired, the weight of decades of grief and deception etching fine lines around her eyes. "Richard was just a ambitious junior executive when we met. My father liked his ruthlessness, saw him as a useful tool to expand our overseas logistics. But ambition without a moral compass is a consuming fire. When I became pregnant with you, Thomas and I planned to leave the family business behind. We wanted a normal life."
Maya pulled the diary closer, noticing a loose key tucked behind the desk blotter. Without hesitation, she inserted it into the silver clasp. It turned with a satisfying click.
"He told you I died," Maya said, opening the aged pages filled with cramped, precise handwriting.
"He brought me a death certificate bearing the signature of a family-trusted physician," Eleanor replied, her voice breaking. "He held my hand while I cried, whispering that it was God's will. For twenty-two years, I planted flowers in the garden every spring on a date that didn't even mark a real grave."
As Maya began scanning the handwritten entries, her eyes landed on an entry dated November fourteenth—the day after her birth. It detailed a massive financial transfer to a private clinic in upstate New York, accompanied by a chilling note regarding a child successfully transferred to a reliable foster network to prevent any public scandal over an unapproved union.
May you like
Maya looked up from the page, her jaw set. "He didn't just steal me, Eleanor. He orchestrated a trafficking operation disguised as a corporate adoption."
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