Chapter 4 - Fractured Legacies
The lingering echo of her father’s voice hung in the silent boutique, a ghostly specter that stripped away every illusion Victoria had ever built her life upon. She gripped the edge of the glass desk, her knuckles turning white as she struggled to anchor herself in reality. The audio file had ended, leaving only the faint, rhythmic hum of the boutique’s HVAC system and the steady, quiet breathing of the scarred artisan.
“He had a choice,” Victoria whispered, staring blindly at the dark computer screen. Her reflection stared back—a woman dressed in pristine white, yet stained by sins she had never known she inherited. “He always said he did what he had to do for the crew.”
“He saved himself and his command staff,” the old woman corrected, stepping closer to the desk. Her glowing blue optics reflected the pale light of the monitor. “My daughter spent her final minutes trying to override his command code. She designed the primary life-support routing for this very vessel before she was assigned to that ill-fated dive. She knew every bolt in that sub, just like she knew the weave of this silk.”
Victoria slowly lifted her head. “Why make this dress? Why bring it here, to me?”
“Because your fiancé, Julian Vance, is the primary financial backer of the deep-sea salvage firm that legally stripped my daughter’s resting place,” the old woman said, her voice dropping to a harsh register. “He bought the trench rights. He pulled the hull from the silt, and he handed the abyssal silk directly to you, unknowingly weaving my dead daughter’s shroud into your wedding gown.”
A cold sweat broke out across Victoria’s neck. Julian. The man she was supposed to marry in seventy-two hours. The man who spoke endlessly of ambition, pedigree, and conquering the future.
“He didn’t know,” Victoria stammered, though even to her own ears, the defense sounded pathetic. “He’s a businessman. He looks at charts, not ghost stories.”
“He looks at profit,” the old woman retorted sharply. “And tomorrow, in front of the entire elite of this city, you are scheduled to walk down the aisle wearing the literal fabric of a crime scene.”
Victoria looked down at her immaculate white trousers. She felt physically ill. The wedding was the social event of the season, broadcast globally, attended by politicians, tycoons, and media moguls.
“If I cancel the wedding—” Victoria started.
May you like
“If you cancel quietly, they will crush you,” the old woman interrupted, leaning over the desk. “Julian will ruin your family name before sunset. You need to confront him with the data.”
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