Chapter 7
Upstairs in the master suite, Elena stood before the ornate floor-to-ceiling mirror, adjusting a diamond brooch pinned to the lapel of a black silk blazer. Her reflection stared back at her with unblinking intensity. She knew the walls were closing in. The presence of Margaret in the nursery, Julian's cold detachment, the subtle shifts in the household security—all of it pointed to a coordinated effort to strip her of her status, her son, and her control.
A soft knock sounded at the heavy oak door. Elena did not turn around. "Come in," she commanded, her voice ringing with icy authority.
The door opened just enough for the head security guard, a hulking man named Miller whom Julian had hired from a private tactical firm, to peer inside. "Mrs. Vance, Mr. Vance requested that I inform you the evening security protocols have been updated. All exterior doors will be locked from the main console at nine o'clock, and intercom access to the nursery wing has been restricted."
Elena turned slowly, her dark eyes locking onto the guard. "Restricted from whom, Miller?"
"From everyone except Mr. Vance and Miss Margaret," Miller replied neutrally, though his posture remained rigid.
A slow, humorless smile spread across Elena's face. She walked toward him with a slow, predatory grace, her thigh-high black boots clicking softly against the hardwood floor. She stopped just a foot away from him, looking up into his weathered face.
"Miller, how long have you been in private security?" she asked, her voice dropping to a low, melodic purr.
"Twelve years, ma'am. Corporate and private estate protection."
"Then you know that loyalty in this house isn't bought by whoever signs the initial paycheck," Elena said, her gaze unwavering. "It’s maintained by knowing who actually holds the keys to the future. Julian is a dreamer. He thinks he can cage a wild animal and teach it to purr. But when the dust settles, men like Julian always fold. Do you want to be standing next to the loser when that happens?"
Miller did not flinch, nor did his expression change. "My contract is with Vance Enterprises, Mrs. Vance. My orders come directly from Mr. Vance."
"For now," Elena whispered, stepping back and smoothing the front of her blazer. "Just remember, Miller—accidents happen in large estates. A slippery stair, a faulty lock, a momentary lapse in attention. Make sure you're standing on the right side of history when the ground gives way."
May you like
Miller gave a stiff, formal nod, turned on his heel, and pulled the door shut behind him, leaving Elena alone once more. She walked over to her mahogany writing desk, unlocked a hidden side panel with a small brass key, and pulled out a small, unlabeled glass vial containing a clear, viscous liquid. She held it up to the light of the desk lamp, watching the amber fluid catch the glow.
"You want a war, Julian?" she murmured to the empty room. "Then a war is what you shall have."
