Chapter 6: The Engraving on the Pearl Collar
Clara’s fingers hooked beneath the heavy pearl collar, pulling against the clasp until the skin of her neck turned red. The small metal emblem engraved near the latch gleamed under the emergency lights—a double-headed phoenix clutching a broken key. Marcus’s eyes locked onto the necklace, his hardened expression faltering for a fraction of a second. He lowered the leather briefcase to the floor, the heavy thud echoing loudly in the tense silence of the room.
“Where did you get that, child?” Marcus asked, taking a cautious step forward, ignoring the revolver Sarah still aimed at his chest.
“It was my mother’s,” Clara snapped, her voice trembling with a mixture of grief and mounting fury. “Or at least, that’s what Victor told me every single day since I was old enough to understand words.”
Eleanor laughed, a sharp, mocking sound that cut through the damp chill of the room. She glided over to Clara, reaching out with manicured fingers to touch the pearls. Clara flinched, swatting Eleanor’s hand away with surprising force. Eleanor didn’t look angry; she looked amused, like a cat toying with a cornered mouse.
“Your mother?” Eleanor purred, leaning down so her face was level with Clara’s. “Sweetheart, the woman you call mother was nothing more than a high-priced ghost hired to keep Victor’s secrets safe while he looted the family estate.”
Victor surged forward from the buffet table, lunging at Eleanor with a strangled cry of rage. “Shut your mouth, Eleanor! You’ve done enough damage!”
Before Victor could reach her, one of the bodyguards—who had somehow returned silently from the perimeter—grabbed Victor from behind, pinning his arms to his sides with brutal efficiency. Victor struggled fiercely, his boots sliding across the glass-strewn floor, but the guard’s grip was like a steel vise.
Sarah kept her revolver trained on Marcus, her eyes darting between the struggling men and the smiling woman. “Let him go,” Sarah commanded, her voice dangerously steady. “Or I swear to God, the first bullet goes through Marcus’s shoulder.”
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Marcus didn't flinch. He slowly knelt down, unlatched the leather briefcase, and pulled out a thick, yellowed manila folder tied with red twine. He held it up for Clara to see.
“The truth is in here, Clara,” Marcus said softly. “And your real father isn’t the man standing over there.”
