Chapter 3 - THE TRUSTEE’S LEDGER
Raymond Sterling walked into the foyer with his silver-tipped cane, his gray hair impeccably groomed, the embodiment of old-money confidence. He had helped raise Victor after his parents died of grief in the early 2000s, steering the Alliance empire through turbulence while keeping Victor on a leash of corporate duties.
“Victor, my boy,” Raymond’s voice rumbled smoothly as he took off his cashmere overcoat. “I heard a crash from the driveway. Is everything all right with the staff?”
Rose quietly began sweeping the porcelain, her head down. Kiara stood rigid against the wainscoting.
Victor tucked the gold swallow back into his shirt, schooling his features into the blank mask he had perfected in boardrooms. “Just an accident, Raymond. Nothing that can’t be replaced.”
“Good. Carelessness shouldn’t be tolerated in a home like this,” Raymond said, his gaze lingering on Kiara for a second too long. His eyes narrowed slightly, noting her uniform, before he turned back to Victor. “We need to discuss the liquidation of the riverfront parcel. The board is getting anxious.”
“Come into the library,” Victor said evenly.
Inside the mahogany-lined study, Raymond settled into the leather armchair, setting his leather briefcase on the table. “You look pale, Victor. You work too hard. Carrying this family alone has made you an old man before your time.”
“Did you ever think she was alive, Raymond?” Victor asked bluntly, leaning against the edge of his desk.
Raymond froze for a fraction of a second, his fingers pausing over the brass latches of his briefcase. “Helena? Victor, we closed that wound years ago. The detectives did everything humanly possible. Dwelling on ghosts will only destroy your focus.”
“A girl matching her description was seen at an orphanage in St. Jude’s,” Victor said, watching the older man’s face closely. “She carried the swallow locket.”
Raymond let out a slow, pitying sigh, shaking his head. “The world is full of con artists, Victor. When a family is as wealthy as yours, people invent fairy tales to extract settlements. I receive letters every month from women claiming to be your sister. I shred them to protect your peace.”
“Did you shred the ones from St. Jude’s?” Victor asked, his voice low and dangerous.
May you like
Raymond leaned back, his expression hardening. “I did what your father paid me to do: protect the estate. If you chase every shadow, you will bankrupt your father’s legacy.” Raymond reached into his pocket and placed an old leather-bound ledger on the desk. “Sign the land transfer, Victor. Let the past stay buried.”
As Raymond reached across the desk, the cuff of his shirt slid back, revealing an antique gold watch engraved with the initials E.A.—belonging to Victor’s father. But pinned to the inside flap of Raymond’s open briefcase was something else: a small, yellowed envelope marked St. Jude’s Home – Monthly Discretionary Fund, 1996–2002.
