Chapter 3
Miles away from the gleaming towers of downtown, the neighborhood of Southside offered a stark contrast of brick walkups, narrow alleys, and the distant rumble of the commuter train. Clara unlocked the deadbolt of her third-floor apartment, the heavy iron key scraping against the chipped green paint of the door. Inside, the space was modest, smelling faintly of roasted coffee beans and old paperbacks. A drafting table stood by the window, cluttered with architectural sketches, watercolor palettes, and architectural blueprints for urban renewal projects.
Clara dropped her canvas tote bag onto the worn armchair and walked straight to the small bathroom. She turned on the cold water and splashed it over her face, wincing as the droplets hit the red marks left by Eleanor Vance’s cruel grip. In the mirror, her reflection stared back—not just a victim of unprovoked assault, but the daughter of a legacy stolen in the dead of night. She touched her cheek, feeling the lingering warmth of the slap that had started a war.
Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. She picked it up to see a text message from an unknown number containing a single address and a time: The Sterling Tower penthouse, 8:00 PM. Come alone if you want the truth about the Miller Mills.
Clara’s heart hammered against her ribs. For years, she had survived on rumors and yellowed newspaper clippings passed down by her ailing aunt before the older woman passed away. She knew that her family had once owned the very land upon which the Grand Sterling Hotel now stood, before a series of fraudulent bankruptcies stripped them of everything. Eleanor Vance had been the rising star of the corporate raiders who orchestrated the hostile takeover, leaving Clara’s parents destitute and broken.
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She walked over to the drafting table and pulled open a hidden compartment beneath the wooden drawer. Inside lay a leather-bound journal with cracked binding, its pages filled with her mother’s meticulous handwriting detailing the night they were cast out into the freezing snow. Clara traced the faded ink with her thumb. She had not gone to the hotel by accident that day; she had gone to deliver the architectural proposal for the community center slated to replace the abandoned mill district, only to be ambushed by the woman who had destroyed her family.
Now, the wolf was inviting her back into the den. Clara closed the journal, slipped it into her bag, and walked back out the door. She was done hiding in the shadows of the city. If Eleanor Vance wanted a battle, Clara would give her an inheritance she would never forget.
