Chapter 8: Eleanor's Confession
The following afternoon, the rain beat a relentless tattoo against the stained-glass windows of the grand library. Eleanor sat in a high-backed leather armchair near the unlit fireplace, a woolen shawl draped over her beige lace evening dress. Her fingers traced the edge of an old silver tea set as Viktor walked into the room, his expression dark and thunderous.
"He found the journal in the East Wing chimney," Viktor said without preamble, leaning his muscular frame against the mahogany bookshelf. "The one Clara kept during her final months here."
Eleanor didn't look surprised. She poured a cup of pale Earl Grey tea, her movements steady despite her advanced age. "She was always clever at hiding things. Too clever for her own good. She thought she could outsmart the family trust by documenting every transaction, every threat, every closed-door agreement."
"And if those notes ever reach the county prosecutor?" Viktor asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "The trust wouldn't just dissolve. The entire foundation of this estate—every mine, every share, every title—would be forfeited to the state for corporate fraud."
Eleanor took a slow sip of tea, her eyes reflecting the gray light of the stormy afternoon. "Then we make sure the boy never reads them. Just as we made sure his mother never had the chance to publish them."
Viktor pushed off the bookshelf, his face flushing with dark anger. "That wasn't the deal, Eleanor. Clara’s death was an accident on the ravine road. You swore to me it was brake failure."
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"Brake failure?" Eleanor let out a sharp, brittle laugh that sounded like cracking ice. "Viktor, you built this empire on the belief that sentimentality is a weakness, yet you lie to yourself every night about what happened to that girl. She didn't die because of bad brakes. She died because she was going to hand the boy over to the very people who are trying to tear down our gates right now."
From the doorway behind them, a small, barely audible gasp echoed across the Persian rug. Both adults whipped their heads around. Custa stood in the shadows of the hallway, clutching his cloth bib in his tiny hands, his wide blue eyes staring at his grandmother with a mixture of terror and absolute clarity. He had heard every word.
