Chapter 8: Victoria's Web
The neon sign outside Marcus Vance’s second-story office flickered a sickly green, casting long, rhythmic shadows across the mountains of paperwork covering his desk. Vance hadn't slept. A half-eaten pastrami sandwich sat ignored next to a stack of financial ledgers that had taken him calling in three major favors to unseal.
He took a long drag of his cigarette, his eyes scanning the highlighted columns of numbers. The puzzle pieces were finally snapping together, and the picture they formed was horrifying.
Six years ago, Victoria Hayes—Sarah Sterling’s trusted personal assistant—was drowning.
Vance traced the timeline with a red pen. Six months before the car crash, Victoria had accumulated nearly half a million dollars in debt. Offshore gambling, disastrous margin calls on terrible stock tips, and a lifestyle she desperately tried to maintain to blend in with Sarah’s high-society circle. She was facing bankruptcy and potential jail time for quietly embezzling from Sarah’s personal charity accounts.
Then came November 14th.
Vance flipped to the bank statements of Dr. Aris Thorne, the former county coroner who had signed Sarah’s death certificate and rushed the cremation order. Two days after the accident, an untraceable offshore wire transfer of fifty thousand dollars had magically appeared in Thorne’s Cayman account. Three days later, another fifty thousand.
"Son of a bitch," Vance whispered into the smoke-filled room.
He grabbed the phone and dialed Andrew’s private number.
"Vance," Andrew answered. He sounded exhausted, the ambient noise of city traffic humming in the background. "Tell me you have something."
"I have the motive, the method, and the accomplice," Vance said grimly. "Andrew, Victoria didn't just walk away from the crash. She orchestrated the aftermath. She was hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt, and Sarah was about to find out about stolen charity funds. After the crash, Victoria bought off the county coroner. Thorne falsified the dental records."
Silence hung heavily on the line. "Then who... whose ashes did I bury?" Andrew’s voice cracked.
"A Jane Doe from the county morgue," Vance replied gently. "Thorne switched the files to cover the fact that the body pulled from the wreck didn't match Sarah's physiology. He burned the evidence, literally. Andrew... if those DNA results come back a match, it means Victoria left your wife to die in the mud and stole her life to cover her own crimes."
Andrew didn't reply. The line went dead.
Back at the Sterling estate, the atmosphere was suffocatingly tense. The sprawling mansion felt like a powder keg waiting for a spark.
Victoria stood in the center of her massive walk-in closet, staring at the rows of designer clothes. Her heart was beating a frantic, irregular rhythm against her ribs. Andrew had left the house at dawn without saying a word to her. He wasn't answering her calls. The cold, analytical distance in his eyes over the past two days terrified her. He was pulling away, slipping out of the meticulously crafted snare she had spent six years weaving.
She walked over to her vanity mirror and braced her hands against the marble. She needed to lock him down. If Andrew broke off the engagement now, before the prenuptial agreements were finalized, she would be left with nothing. Worse, if he started digging into why she was pushing so hard to fire the maid...
Victoria’s eyes narrowed. She needed leverage. She needed the only thing Andrew cared about more than his own life.
She picked up her phone and dialed the estate's head of security. "Prepare the SUV," she ordered, her voice completely devoid of its usual warmth. "I am taking the boys up to the winter cabin in Vermont. Have it fueled and running in the roundabout by midnight."
"Ma'am, Mr. Sterling didn't mention a trip—"
"Mr. Sterling is dealing with a corporate crisis in the city," Victoria interrupted sharply. "The press is swarming, and he wants the children out of the blast radius. Do not bother him with trivial logistics. Just have the car ready."
Downstairs, Sarah was methodically polishing the silver banister of the grand staircase. She wore her maid’s uniform, her hair pulled back into its tight, severe bun, playing the role of Elena flawlessly. But behind her dark eyes, a predator was waking up.
She watched as the head housekeeper hurried down the hall, flanked by two junior maids carrying three large, matching leather suitcases.
"Hurry up, girls," the housekeeper urged in a hushed, anxious tone. "Miss Victoria wants the boys' heavy coats and boots packed immediately. They are leaving for the Vermont cabin tonight."
Sarah’s hand froze on the banister. The polishing cloth slipped from her fingers, landing softly on the marble step.
Vermont. The Sterling winter cabin was a sprawling, isolated fortress situated on a private mountain road, three hours north. It had no cell service and a single access point. If Victoria took Leo and Max up there, she would have complete control over them. She could isolate them, manipulate them, or use them as hostages to force Andrew’s hand in the marriage.
A cold, primal panic seized Sarah’s chest.
She abandoned her cleaning supplies and moved silently down the corridor, pressing herself against the wall near the boys' playroom. The door was slightly ajar.
Inside, Leo and Max were sitting on the rug, surrounded by half-packed bags. Max was crying silently, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his sweater. Leo had his arm wrapped protectively around his younger brother, glaring defiantly at Victoria, who was sharply directing a maid on how to fold their ski pants.
"We don't want to go to the cabin," Leo said, his voice trembling but remarkably brave. "We want to wait for Dad."
Victoria turned slowly. The aristocratic mask was completely gone, replaced by a cold, venomous sneer. "Your father doesn't have time for you right now, Leo. He is exhausted by your constant whining and your ridiculous attachment to the hired help. You are coming with me, and you will learn how to behave like Sterling men, even if I have to lock you in your rooms for a month to teach you."
In the hallway, Sarah squeezed her eyes shut. Her fingernails dug into her own palms hard enough to draw tiny beads of blood.
May you like
Victoria was taking her children. The same woman who had ripped the wedding ring off her bleeding finger while she burned was now threatening to steal her sons under the cover of darkness.
Sarah opened her eyes. The terrified, amnesiac maid was dead and buried. As she turned and walked deliberately toward the front foyer, her mind was crystal clear. Victoria was not leaving this property with her children. Not tonight. Not ever.
