Chapter 3 - THE SILENT GIRL
Madeline stared at the signatures until the blue ink blurred into meaningless shapes.
"I didn't sign these," she repeated, her voice cracking. She looked up at Victor, desperate for him to see the truth in her eyes. "I swear to you. I manage crayons and canvas supplies for underprivileged kids. I don't even have access to these kinds of accounts. You have to believe me."
"I do believe you," Victor said. He leaned back against the leather seat, his expression unreadable. "Because on October fourteenth, the date of that five-million-dollar transfer, you were in Paris attending a modern art exhibit. I checked your flight records."
Madeline’s breath hitched. "You checked my flight records? Why are you investigating me?"
"I am not investigating you. I am investigating the Mercer family," Victor corrected smoothly. "I am purchasing the Bellamy Crown Hotel, but the Mercer Foundation holds a toxic lien on the property. In order to clear it, I needed to understand where their money was flowing. I followed the money, and it led directly to your name."
"So you were just going to let me take the fall?" she asked, a spark of anger cutting through her fear.
"If I was going to let you take the fall, I would not have stepped between you and Grant in that elevator," Victor said. "I would have let him drag you back to his penthouse."
The harsh truth of his words silenced her. The SUV turned off the main road, the tires crunching over gravel. Madeline looked out the window. High iron gates loomed in the darkness, swinging open to reveal a sprawling stone estate set deep within the woods of Lake Forest.
"You are safe here," Victor said as the car came to a halt. "Grant’s money cannot buy his way through my front door."
The next morning, Madeline woke up in a guest bedroom larger than her entire apartment. The bed was impossibly soft, the linens smelling faintly of lavender. Someone had left a set of clean, luxurious lounge clothes—a soft grey cashmere sweater and matching pants—at the foot of the bed. They fit her curves perfectly, hugging her waist without squeezing, draped elegantly over her hips.
She walked downstairs, the quiet of the massive house pressing against her ears. She followed the smell of coffee to a massive, sunlit kitchen.
She wasn't alone.
Sitting at the sprawling marble island was a little girl, perhaps six years old. She had a mop of dark, unruly curls and Victor’s striking black-brown eyes. The girl was aggressively scribbling on a piece of thick drawing paper with a dark purple crayon, her small brow furrowed in intense concentration.
Madeline instinctively softened. She stepped into the kitchen. "Good morning."
The little girl froze. She looked up, her dark eyes wide and guarded. She didn't say a word. She just pulled the piece of paper closer to her chest, hiding it.
"I'm Madeline," she said gently, keeping her distance. She pointed to the crayon box. "That's a very good brand of crayons. The beeswax makes the colors really bright. Do you like drawing?"
The girl stared at her, completely mute.
"Sofia," a deep voice said from the doorway.
Madeline turned. Victor stood there, dressed in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing muscular forearms etched with faded, intricate ink. The cold, impenetrable mask he wore the night before melted the instant he looked at the child.
"Sofia doesn't speak," Victor said quietly, walking over and pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his daughter's head. "Not since she was three."
Madeline felt a pang in her chest. Trauma. She recognized the shape of it immediately. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."
"You aren't," Victor said. He poured a cup of black coffee and handed it to Madeline. His fingers brushed hers, warm and calloused. "Sofia, this is Madeline. She is a guest in our home."
Sofia observed Madeline for a long moment. Slowly, the little girl lowered the paper she had been clutching. She slid it across the marble island toward Madeline.
Madeline stepped forward and looked down. It was a drawing of a woman in a green dress, standing behind a tall, dark wall.
"It's beautiful, Sofia," Madeline whispered, deeply moved. She looked up at Victor, who was watching her with that same intense, quiet attention he had shown in the elevator. It made her skin warm.
"I need to make a phone call," Victor said, his voice dropping an octave. "My study is down the hall. Wait for me there."
Madeline nodded, taking her coffee. She left Sofia to her crayons and walked down the wide corridor, pushing open the heavy oak doors of Victor’s study. It was a masculine room, lined with first-edition books and smelling of old paper and leather.
She walked over to the massive mahogany desk to set her mug down on a coaster. As she did, her eyes caught a small, silver-framed photograph tucked behind a brass lamp.
Madeline froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
May you like
She picked up the frame with shaking hands. The photograph was old, the colors slightly faded. It showed a younger, teenage Victor Moretti standing on a boat.
And standing right next to him, laughing with her head thrown back and her arm draped casually around Victor's shoulder, was Madeline’s mother.
