Chapter 10 - The Apprenticeship of Truth
Victoria stood frozen as the young woman in the grease-stained jumpsuit crossed the threshold of the boutique workshop. The stark contrast between their upbringings—between Victoria’s pampered life of high-society galas and this newcomer’s world of grease, steel, and forgotten labor—hung heavily in the air.
“My grandmother built the loom that wove this bodice,” the young woman said, her eyes fixed on the glowing wedding dress. She walked up to the mannequin, her fingers tracing the intricate black and white pearls with practiced familiarity. “She didn't survive the trench, but her blueprints did. And so did the debt your family owes.”
Victoria swallowed hard, finding her voice beneath layers of profound exhaustion. “What do you want from me? My accounts are frozen. The federal marshals have seized every asset connected to the Vance merger. I’m legally and socially radioactive.”
The young woman turned her head, offering a faint, melancholic smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. “Good. Wealth built on a mass grave is just a gilded cage, Victoria. It’s time you learned how to weave something real.”
She reached down, pulling a heavy canvas duffel bag from behind the cutting table and dropping it at Victoria’s feet. It hit the marble with a dull, heavy thud. Victoria unzipped the flap. Inside lay no designer garments, no pristine white silk, but heavy-duty industrial sewing tools, titanium threading needles, and several thick, leather-bound salvage logs stamped with the official insignia of the USS Leviathan.
“Julian’s arrest is just the headline,” the young woman explained, pulling a heavy metal stool up to the cutting table. “The deep-sea mining syndicate he represented is still active in the trench. They’re currently running a covert salvage operation to strip the remaining compartments of the sunken sub before the international maritime court can declare it a protected war grave.”
Victoria looked down at the leather-bound logs, her fingers brushing the worn spine. “They’re looting a war grave?”
“They’ve been doing it for thirty years,” the young woman said bitterly. “Covering up evidence, erasing the engineers who designed the bulkheads, and selling off rare deep-sea minerals salvaged from the bodies of the crew. Your father was just the captain who locked the door. Julian was the broker who cashed the checks.”
Victoria looked at her reflection in the dark glass of the workshop window. The blonde ponytail was unraveling, strands of hair falling loose around her face. For the first time in her life, she didn't look like a trophy wife or a demanding elite. She looked like a survivor.
“How do we stop them?” Victoria asked, her voice steady and resolute.
The young woman picked up a titanium needle and held it out across the cutting table.
May you like
“We sew the truth into the sails of every ship they send down.”
---
