Chapter 4 - The Viper in the Lobby
The law offices of Vance, Holloway & Partners occupied the forty-fifth floor of a downtown skyscraper that smelled of expensive leather, lemon polish, and impending conflict. I wore a tailored navy suit Julian had custom-ordered for me—not to mask who I was, but to ensure Victoria’s legal team couldn't dismiss me as a poor girl out of her depth.
Julian walked beside me down the glass-paneled hallway, his hand resting securely on the small of my back. It was a gesture of protection that had become increasingly common over the past few weeks, causing a quiet, warm flutter in my chest that I firmly tried to ignore. I was an employee. A protector for his children. Anything more was dangerous territory.
When we entered the main conference room, the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
Sitting at the head of the polished mahogany table was Victoria Sterling. She was a woman in her late sixties who looked as though she had been sculpted from glacial ice and draped in Chanel. Her silver hair was styled in a rigid bob, and her pale blue eyes—the exact same color as poor Lily’s—locked onto me with instant, dissecting disdain.
Beside her sat three lawyers in dark suits and Beatrice, who wore a modest gray dress and a look of practiced, martyred innocence.
“Julian,” Victoria said, her voice like silk dragged across a blade. “How deeply disappointing to see you parading this... help... into a formal legal proceeding. Sarah would be mortified by how low your standards have fallen.”
Julian didn't take the bait. He pulled out a chair for me, waited until I was seated, and then sat down directly across from his mother-in-law.
“Sarah would have burned your Boston estate to the ground if she knew you hired a woman to lock her daughters in a dark closet, Victoria,” Julian said coldly.
Beatrice flinched, but Victoria’s lawyer immediately raised a hand. “We are not here to trade baseless slander, Mr. Vance. We are here to depose Miss Elena Vance—ah, excuse me, Miss Elena Rostova. We must establish whether she possesses any legitimate, board-certified qualifications to act as the primary psychological caregiver for three traumatized minors.”
The lead attorney, a man with a predatory smile named Mr. Henderson, turned his legal pad toward me. “Miss Rostova, let’s begin with your educational background. You hold a bachelor's degree in art history from a state university, correct? No master's in early childhood development? No licensing in speech pathology?”
“That is correct,” I said, keeping my voice level, remembering Julian’s advice from the car ride over: Do not let them see you bleed.
“And prior to your current, highly lucrative arrangement with Mr. Vance, your primary employment for the last six years was waiting tables at a bistro, correct?”
“I was the shift supervisor and lead trainer at the Penthouse Bistro,” I corrected him. “Where, I might add, I was the only adult in a room of fifty wealthy individuals who noticed that three five-year-old girls were exhibiting signs of severe psychological distress and physical abuse.”
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Henderson smiled coldly. “Yes, your heroic intervention is well-documented in the tabloids. But let us discuss the methodology you are currently employing at the estate. Is it true that you actively discourage the children from using vocal speech, instead promoting a primitive form of sign language that isolates them from normal society?”
Before I could answer, Julian leaned forward, his hands flat on the mahogany table. “If you interrupt her healing process again with these ridiculous narratives, Henderson, I won't just defeat this guardianship petition. I will buy the building your firm leases, cancel your tenancy, and personally ruin your professional reputation across the entire Pacific Northwest. Now ask a relevant question, or we walk.”
