Chapter 2 - The Blood-Stained LedgerThe private medical suite on the third floor of Blackwood Manor smelled faintly of antiseptic and ozone. Dr. Harrison, the Vance family’s personal physician for two decades, pulled his gloves off with a sharp snap and tossed them into a silver basin.
Julian stood by the window, his coat removed, his white shirt stained with Martha’s dried blood. He had refused to change. He wanted the rust-colored stain on his chest to remind him of every second he had spent believing Victoria Sterling’s gentle smile.
"Is she going to live?" Julian asked without turning around.
Dr. Harrison sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "She’s stable, Julian. But only barely. The head trauma caused a moderate concussion, and she’s lost a dangerous amount of blood. But the real damage is her back and legs. The lacerations from the glass are deep—some required dozens of stitches. If you hadn't come down when you did..." The doctor trailed off, shaking his head. "She wouldn't have survived another ten minutes of that treatment."
Julian’s jaw tightened until his facial muscles ached. "Has she regained consciousness?"
"No. We’ve placed her in a medically induced coma to manage the pain and reduce swelling on her brain. It will be at least forty-eight hours before we can safely bring her around."
"Keep two armed men inside her room at all times," Julian ordered, his voice dropping into a register that made Dr. Harrison pause. "Nobody enters without my explicit written permission. Not even the nursing staff unless Marcus is standing in the room."
"Julian," Dr. Harrison said gently, setting a hand on his shoulder. "What on earth happened in that gallery? Victoria claims—"
"I don't give a damn what Victoria claims," Julian cut him off coldly. "Where is she?"
"Marcus has her in the grand parlor," the doctor replied. "She insisted on dressing and demanded her lawyers be called. She’s hysterical, Julian."
"Good," Julian said, his eyes turning to stone. "Let her sweat."
Julian left the medical suite and walked down the wide, carpeted grand hallway toward the west wing gallery. The basement had been sealed off with police tape, though no authorities had been called yet. Julian ran his family with the absolute authority of a feudal lord; the police would be involved when he possessed the full picture, and not a moment before.
Marcus was waiting for him at the entrance of the shattered gallery, holding a heavy yellow envelope in his gloved hands.
"Mr. Vance," Marcus said, his broad, weather-beaten face dark with concern. "My men finished sweeping the gallery. We found the source of the altercation."
Julian stopped. "The safe?"
"Yes, sir," Marcus nodded, pointing toward the corner of the room where the broken mirrors had been cleared away by the security team. "It’s an old wall-embedded vault, installed by your father in 1988. It wasn't on the house’s central security registry. It looks like Martha found the key hidden inside an old antique vanity we moved down here last month."
Julian walked over to the exposed safe. The door was swung open, revealing a velvet-lined interior that was mostly empty—except for a thick, leather-bound book and a stack of yellowing documents resting on the bottom shelf.
"What is that?" Julian asked.
"It’s a ledger, sir," Marcus said, handing the yellow envelope to Julian. "And these were inside it. You need to see them yourself."
Julian pulled the contents out of the envelope.
The first item was an official bank statement from a private institution in Geneva, dated five years ago—nearly eleven months after Leo’s official death. It showed a recurring monthly wire transfer of fifty thousand dollars, drawn from an offshore shell corporation registered under the name Sterling Holdings.
The recipient was a private psychiatric facility located in the remote mountains of Valais, Switzerland.
The second document was a medical intake form. Printed at the top was a clear, high-resolution photograph of a young man with sharp blue eyes, sandy hair, and a distinct crescent-shaped scar above his left eyebrow.
Julian dropped the envelope. The paper fluttered onto the floor, but the photograph remained burned into his retinas.
It was Leo.
His brother. His younger, brilliant, reckless brother, who was supposed to be lying at the bottom of Puget Sound.
The document listed the patient’s intake date as October 14th, six years ago—three days after his boat had been found capsized off the estate’s coast. The patient was listed under an alias: Patient 404. But the diagnosis beneath the photograph was written in crisp, clear black ink: Severe traumatic brain injury, drug-induced amnesia, chemically maintained sedation.
And at the bottom of the form, under the line reserved for the legal guardian authorizing the ongoing treatment, was a signature written in elegant, slanting cursive:
Victoria Sterling.
Julian felt the room tilt beneath his feet. The air rushed out of his lungs as if he had been struck in the chest with a sledgehammer.
Six years.
For six years, he had mourned his brother. He had held his mother as she died of a broken heart two years after Leo vanished. He had sat in the silent mausoleum, weeping over a hollow stone casket, cursing the sea for taking his family away.
And all the while, the woman who had slipped into his life eighteen months ago—the woman who had comforted him during his darkest moments, who had kissed away his tears on the anniversary of Leo’s death—had been paying a Swiss clinic to keep his brother drugged, forgotten, and hidden away in an alpine grave.
"Mr. Vance?" Marcus asked gently, catching Julian’s elbow as the billionaire swayed slightly. "Sir, are you alright?"
Julian didn't answer. He slowly leaned down, picked up the photograph of his brother, and pressed it into his coat pocket, right over the dried blood of Martha Gable.
"Where is Victoria?" Julian asked. His voice was no longer filled with rage. It was empty. Flat. Deadly.
"In the grand parlor, sir," Marcus replied. "She tried to leave twenty minutes ago, but I locked the gates. She’s threatening to file false imprisonment charges against the estate."
"Let her threaten," Julian whispered.
He turned on his heel and walked up the stairs, his boots leaving faint gray dust trails on the polished marble.
The doors to the grand parlor were double-leafed, carved from solid mahogany. Julian pushed them open with a slow, deliberate pressure.
Victoria was standing near the fireplace, a glass of brandy shaking in her hand. She had changed into a dark silk dress, though she hadn't been able to completely wash the smudge of dried blood from beneath her fingernails.
When she saw Julian enter, she immediately set the glass down and rushed toward him, her face twisting into a mask of tearful distress.
"Julian!" she cried, reaching out to throw her arms around his neck. "Thank God! Those horrible security guards wouldn't let me leave! They treated me like a criminal! Julian, you have to fire Marcus immediately—"
Julian didn't move. He didn't wrap his arms around her. He simply stepped back, letting her hands fall awkwardly into the empty air between them.
"Julian?" she whispered, her eyes flickering with sudden uncertainty. "What's wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Martha woke up," Julian lied, his eyes fixed on her face like twin lasers.
Victoria’s breathing hitched. Her throat moved as she swallowed hard. "She... she did? What could she possibly say? Julian, I told you, she was confused, she grabbed a iron bar, she—"
"She told me four words, Victoria," Julian interrupted softly.
Victoria’s hands tightened into fists at her sides. "She’s delusional, Julian! She suffered a massive head injury! You can't possibly believe anything a dying old housekeeper says over your own fiancée!"
Julian reached into his pocket. He didn't pull out a gun. He pulled out the yellowing paper from the Swiss clinic and held it out between them.
The photograph of Leo Vance faced upward, staring directly at Victoria.
Victoria’s eyes fell onto the paper.
In an instant, the remaining warmth in her face evaporated. The frantic, tearful performance vanished, replaced by an absolute, terrifying stillness. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her skin looking like cheap wax.
"Where is my brother, Victoria?" Julian asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Victoria didn't answer. She took a slow step backward, her eyes darting toward the parlor doors.
"You have five seconds to give me an address," Julian said, his hand sliding slowly into his coat pocket. "Or I hand this document, along with the security footage of you dragging Martha across broken glass, to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. And I promise you, Victoria—my family owns enough judges in this state to ensure you never see the sun again."
Victoria stared at the photograph, her mouth opening and closing silently like a landed fish.
Then, a slow, bitter, agonizingly cruel smile began to creep across her perfectly painted lips. The delicate, elegant heiress was gone. The monster beneath had finally stepped into the light.
"You think you're so smart, don't you, Julian?" she sneered, her voice dropping all pretense of warmth. "You sit up here in your high tower, playing the grieving brother, while the rest of us had to clean up his mess."
"Where is he?" Julian roared, taking a step toward her.
"He’s right where I put him!" Victoria snapped back, her eyes sparkling with unhinged malice. "In a place where he can't ruin my family’s empire! In a place where he can never tell you what he found out six years ago!"
Julian grabbed her by the throat, pinning her against the edge of the heavy mahogany mantlepiece. "What did he find out?!"
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Victoria gasped for air, her nails clawing at Julian’s wrists, but her smile never faded.
"Ask his grave, Julian," she choked out, a dark, terrifying laugh bubbling from her throat. "Ask your brother’s empty grave!"
