Chapter 12: The Packing of the Trunk
The final weekend before the court date was marked by an eerie, frantic activity. The domestic staff had been given their severance packages and sent away with non-disclosure agreements and heavy cash settlements. For the first time in over a century, the sprawling Vance estate was entirely empty of everyone except Viktor, Eleanor, and three-year-old Custa.
Up in the East Wing nursery, Viktor was packing a small canvas trunk with the boy's clothes—the light blue button-up shirts, the gray wool vests, the tiny cloth bibs. Custa sat on the edge of the bed, watching him with big, curious blue eyes, holding a small wooden horse he had found in the attic.
"Are we going outside?" Custa asked, his voice hesitant.
Viktor paused, his hands resting on the edge of the canvas trunk. He looked at the boy—really looked at him—seeing the messy blond hair, the sharp intelligence in his gaze, and the total absence of fear.
"Yes," Viktor said softly. "Beyond the gates, Custa. Far away from here. You're going to live with people who will teach you how to paint, how to laugh, and how to cry without hiding your face."
"Are you coming?"
May you like
Viktor shook his head slowly, a faint, melancholic smile touching the corners of his stern mouth. "No. Someone has to stay behind to lock the doors and settle the accounts with the past."
Downstairs, Eleanor was burning documents in the grand fireplace of the library. Ledger after ledger of corporate secrets, illegal land grabs, and forged deeds went up in brilliant orange flames, turning decades of ruthless family history into harmless gray ash. Her beige lace evening dress was stained with soot, her pearl necklace tossed carelessly onto the side table. The grand illusion was finally burning away to nothing.
