Chapter 2 - The Letter on the Floor
The ballroom music swelled, the quartet playing a lively minuet that clashed violently with the sudden, suffocating silence radiating from the gift table. Julian stared at his bride, watching the color drain entirely from her face until she looked like a marble statue carved out of grief and disbelief.
"Victoria? What is it?" Julian asked, taking a hesitant step forward. "What does the note say?"
Victoria could not speak. Her throat felt as though it had constricted around broken glass. She stared down at the cream-colored parchment lying against the parquet floor. The handwriting was neat, elegant, and entirely unmistakable. It was penned by Arthur Pendelton, the brilliant, reclusive architect who had supposedly vanished three years ago—taking with him the fifty million dollars of venture capital that had funded Victoria’s father’s real estate empire, and by extension, the entire foundation of the Sterling family fortune.
"It's not possible," Victoria whispered, her voice cracking for the first time. "He’s dead. The police found the car in the river."
"Who is dead?" Julian demanded, bending down to retrieve the letter.
"Don't touch it!" Victoria snapped, her hand darting out to slap his wrist away with a violence that shocked them both. The bridesmaids, lingering a few feet away with forced smiles, froze in place, pretending to admire the floral arrangements while their eyes devoured every micro-expression of panic on the bride's face.
Julian rubbed his wrist, his hazel eyes hardening with a resentment that had been brewing for years. "We are supposed to be getting married in twenty minutes, Victoria. Half the city's elite are sitting out there drinking champagne we can't afford, and you are acting like a ghost just walked through that door."
"A ghost would be easier to deal with," Victoria muttered, her mind racing backward through a labyrinth of forged signatures, offshore accounts, and a dead man who had just sent her a wedding present.
The letter had contained only a photograph and a single sentence: I hope you enjoy the party you bought with stolen blood. I’ll see you when the honeymoon ends. Attached to the back of the photo was a secondary note detailing the exact routing number of the trust fund Victoria had inherited upon her father's passing—a trust fund that was currently sitting in an empty account.
Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at her ribs. If the trust was gone, the hotel bills weren't paid. The catering wasn't paid. Julian’s silence wasn't the silence of a devoted husband; it was the silence of a man who had also signed his name to documents he didn't fully read.
"Where is Clara?" Victoria whispered suddenly, her head snapping up as the pieces of a terrifying puzzle clicked into place.
Julian frowned. "The hotel manager? Why would she matter right now?"
May you like
Victoria grabbed her heavy lace skirt, lifting it off the floor, and turned toward the grand exit with a look of pure murder in her eyes. "Because she didn't just hand me that box by accident."
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