Chapter 8
The opulent living room felt like a courtroom, and Victor Sterling was both judge and executioner. He stood over his kneeling wife, his chest heaving with suppressed fury. The tattoos on his neck seemed to tighten as he jaw locked again. He didn't raise his voice; instead, his words cut through the quiet air with razor-sharp precision.
“How long?” Victor demanded, his voice dangerously low. “How long have you been losing control with our son like this?”
Eleanor kept her face hidden in her hands, her shoulders shaking with heavy, ragged sobs. The elegant facade she had maintained for society, the picture-perfect mother in the dark red dress, was completely shattered.
“I didn't mean to,” Eleanor choked out between gasps, her voice pathetic and small. “I’m drowning, Victor. Every day is a nightmare. The postpartum depression... it feels like a heavy blanket suffocating me, and when he cries, I just lose my mind. I feel like I’m trapped in a cage.”
Victor looked down at her, a complex mix of disgust, anger, and a flicker of cold realization washing over him. He had spent millions building a fortress to protect his family from external enemies, completely blind to the fact that the greatest danger to his son was living inside the master bedroom.
“That does not give you the right to abuse my son,” Victor said sternly, stepping back. He tapped Marcus on the shoulder. “Take Mrs. Sterling to the west wing guest suite. Lock the doors from the outside. No phone, no internet access, and no visitors until I decide how to handle this.”
Marcus nodded firmly, stepping forward to assist the weeping woman. Eleanor didn't resist. She allowed the head of security to lift her gently to her feet and guide her out of the room. Her dark red dress dragged slightly across the polished marble floor, leaving behind the illusion of their perfect life.
Once the heavy oak doors closed, Victor was left alone in the vast, quiet room. He walked over to the armchair where Clara had left her bright yellow cleaning gloves. He picked one up, turning the rubber fabric over in his large, tattooed hand. Clara had seen the truth, and instead of looking away to protect her job, she had stepped in to protect an innocent child.
May you like
Victor reached into his suit jacket and pulled out his phone. He dialed the internal intercom system connecting to the staff quarters.
“Clara,” Victor said when the line connected. “Come back up to the living room.”
