Chapter 6
The black sedan plunged deeper into the winding coastal forest, leaving the glittering lights of the Sterling estate far behind. The rhythmic thrum of the tires against the wet asphalt was the only sound inside the cabin as Clara stared down at the photographs scattered across the leather seat. The image of the woman in the burlap sack burned into her retinas, rewriting every assumption she had ever made about the family that had stolen her life.
“A twin?” Clara murmured, her voice laced with disbelief as she looked up at the scarred man beside her. “Eleanor never had a sister on any public record. The Sterling family PR machine erased every trace of collateral branches before I was even old enough to walk.”
“Tycoons don’t like loose ends, and they certainly don’t like shared inheritances,” the man replied, keeping his eyes fixed on the winding road ahead. He flicked a switch on the dashboard, turning on a small interior reading light that cast a harsh, yellow glow over the interior. “When Beatrice died—or rather, when Arthur had her put away—he needed a compliant proxy to groom into the perfect society wife to secure the next round of mergers. He found Sarah, Eleanor’s forgotten twin, languishing in a state orphanage upstate, and gave her a new name, a new face, and a cage made of diamonds.”
Clara clenched her fists, her fingernails digging deep into her palms. “And tonight was supposed to be the coronation. But Sarah tried to back out, didn’t she? She found out about the trust fund and tried to run.”
“She didn’t just try to run,” the man said, his jaw tightening as he hit the turn signal. “She left a message of her own in the estate’s master safe. Which brings us to why we’re heading down to the old boathouse bunker instead of a safehouse.”
The sedan slowed to a crawl as it approached a rusted iron gate hidden beneath a thick canopy of weeping willows. The rusted chains hung loose, the padlock smashed open weeks ago. The vehicle rolled through the entrance and descended down a steep, concrete ramp that vanished directly into the side of the rocky cliff face overlooking the churning ocean below.
The headlights swept across a heavy steel blast door set into the stone foundation. The man shifted the gear into park, pulled the handbrake, and killed the engine. The sudden silence in the car was absolute, broken only by the distant, thunderous crash of waves against the rocks outside.
“Wait in the car, Clara,” the man instructed, reaching for a heavy iron key from his coat pocket.
“Not a chance,” Clara retorted, opening her door before he could stop her and stepping out into the damp, salty air. “I’ve waited twenty years for this. I’m not staying in the car while you open Pandora’s box.”
The man sighed, shaking his head, but didn’t argue further. He walked over to the blast door, inserted the key into the heavily oxidized lock, and threw his weight against the steel. With a screech of tortured metal, the door swung inward, revealing a pitch-black corridor that smelled heavily of ozone, damp stone, and old iron.
Clara pulled a small tactical flashlight from her jacket pocket, clicked it on, and swept the beam down the long, descending hallway. The stark white light cut through the gloom, illuminating damp brick walls and rusted pipes running along the ceiling.
“Keep close,” the man warned, drawing a heavy steel-barreled revolver from his holster. “We’re not the only ones who knew this vault existed.”
They walked cautiously down the damp steps, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. At the end of the corridor stood a second, reinforced vault door, its electronic keypad hanging loosely by severed wires. But it was what lay sprawled across the concrete floor directly in front of the open vault that made Clara freeze in her tracks.
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A heavy, cream-colored envelope—identical to the one Clara had handed Arthur at the altar—lay torn open in a pool of fresh, dark blood. Sticking out of the envelope was a corner of parchment covered in frantic, smeared handwriting.
Clara dropped to her knees, shining her flashlight directly onto the blood-soaked paper, and her breath caught permanently in her throat.
