Chapter 2 - Tracing the Scars
The rain was heavy against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Marcus’s private office at Elliot Global the next morning. The city below was shrouded in a gray mist, the Chicago River looking like a sluggish snake of steel.
Marcus sat at his desk, his sleeves rolled up, staring at the folded crayon drawing of the purple horse.
A soft knock sounded, and his mother, Rosa Elliot, walked in. Even at sixty-five, with her gray hair pulled back in a neat bun and her hands still showing the faint calluses of her decades of hard labor, she carried herself with a quiet dignity that no amount of money could buy.
"You didn't sleep," Rosa said, placing a thermos of strong, chicory-spiced coffee on his desk—the kind she used to make when they couldn't afford the luxury brands.
"I couldn't," Marcus admitted, rubbing his temples. "I keep seeing her face, Mom. Not the anger. The fear. When Lily touched her, Victoria looked like she was about to be executed."
Rosa sat in the leather chair opposite him, her eyes soft but incredibly sharp. "A woman who spits on the poor has usually forgotten where her own bread was baked, Marcus. Or she’s terrified someone will remind her."
Marcus looked up. "What do you mean?"
"I’ve cleaned the houses of women like Victoria Hargrove for thirty years," Rosa said, leaning forward. "The ones who are truly born to it—the ones who have never known a day of cold water or empty cupboards—they don't get angry when a child touches their dress. They find it amusing, or they ignore it because they think they’re untouchable. But the ones who fight the hardest to keep the 'help' away? They’re the ones who are afraid the help will recognize them."
"Victoria’s family has been in the Chicago Blue Book for four generations," Marcus said, though his mind was already spinning. "The Hargrove Shipping Line was a titan in the eighties."
"The Hargroves have been," Rosa agreed. "But what about Victoria? Have you ever met her childhood friends, Marcus? Have you ever seen a photo of her before she turned eighteen?"
Marcus froze. He thought back over their three years together. He had met her father, Harrison. He had met her stepmother, Eleanor, a cold woman who spent her life in European spas. But he had never met an aunt, an uncle, a cousin, or a single friend from her elementary school days. Victoria had always claimed she was tutored privately in Switzerland due to "frail health."
He picked up his phone and dialed his chief of security and information, a brilliant former intelligence analyst named David Vance.
"David," Marcus said when the line connected. "I need a deep dive on Victoria Hargrove. Not the PR bio. I want everything. Birth certificates, school records, medical history, dental records. And I want a forensic audit of Hargrove Enterprises. I want to know where every dollar they’ve spent in the last ten years came from—and where it went."
"On it, boss," David replied. "You want me to look into the father too?"
"Especially the father," Marcus said, his mind flashing back to the thumb-shaped bruise on Victoria’s jawline. "And David? Find out if Victoria has visited any hospitals or private clinics in the last forty-eight hours."
After he hung up, Rosa stood up and walked to the window, watching the rain. "Be careful, Marcus. When you tear down a beautiful wall, you don't always like what’s buried behind the bricks."
"I have to know, Mom," Marcus said. "I won't let my life, or my company, be built on a lie. And I won't let people like Harrison Hargrove think they can use me."
"And Maria?" Rosa asked softly. "And the little one?"
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"They’re safe," Marcus said. "I’ve given Maria paid leave for the next month. I’ve also secured a private security detail for her apartment. If Harrison or Victoria try to blame them for the party, they won't get within a mile of them."
Rosa smiled, a proud, beautiful expression. "You’re a good boy, Marcus. Just like your father was. He never let a bully stand in his doorway."
