Chapter 8: Behind Closed Doors
Back in the third-floor study, the atmosphere had shifted from tentative caution to grim resolve. Marcus sat stiffly on the edge of the velvet sofa, his calloused hands clutching a steaming mug of black coffee I had poured for him. Clara stood beside him, her hand resting reassuringly on his shoulder.
"She keeps the ledger in the vault beneath the conservatory," Marcus said, his voice gravelly and low. "The real one. Not the sanitized tax reports she hands over to the state auditors. Every bribe, every threat, every illegal payoff is documented in that book in her own handwriting."
"And the combination?" I asked, leaning against the edge of the mahogany desk.
"Victoria changes it once a month," Marcus replied, looking up at me with tired, knowing eyes. "Next change is scheduled for the night of the spring charity gala this Friday. She always opens it during the reception to deposit the evening's donations. If you want that ledger, Friday night during the opening toast is the only time the vault will be unlocked."
"That plays right into our hands," I said, crossing my arms. "The entire city will be here—magistrates, journalists, board members. If we expose her in the middle of the ballroom while the cameras are rolling, she won't have a way to spin the narrative."
Before Marcus could answer, a sharp rap echoed against the heavy oak door of the study.
We all froze. Clara gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, while Marcus instinctively stood up, his posture rigid.
"Julian?" Victoria's voice drifted through the thick wood, smooth, composed, and laced with an unmistakable undercurrent of ice. "Are you in there? Mrs. Gable tells me you've been wandering parts of the house where guests aren't usually invited. Open this door immediately."
I signaled for Marcus and Clara to move toward the adjoining small sitting room, gesturing for them to stay silent. Once they were out of sight, I walked slowly across the room and turned the brass handle, pulling the heavy door open.
Victoria stood in the dim corridor, her dark hair swept up in its flawless elaborate updo, wearing a midnight-blue velvet robe edged in silk. Her dark eyes scanned my face, searching for any sign of weakness or deception, but she kept her composure perfectly.
"Late night for exploring, isn't it, Mr. Vance?" she asked, stepping slightly closer, her perfume—a sharp, expensive blend of jasmine and cedar—filling the doorway. "I'd hate for a misunderstanding to ruin what has otherwise been a very pleasant evening."
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"I was just looking for a quiet place to read, Victoria," I replied smoothly, not yielding an inch of the threshold. "This house has a fascinating history. Though I'm beginning to realize some of its chapters are darker than others."
Victoria's smile didn't reach her eyes. She tilted her head slightly, studying me with cold calculation. "History is written by those who survive it, Julian. I suggest you remember that before you go turning pages that weren't meant for you."
