Chapter 8 - The Cornered Viper
The disaster at the regatta broke Victoria’s narrative in half, but a wounded aristocrat is infinitely more dangerous than a comfortable one.
Three days later, while Julian was at the corporate headquarters overseeing a critical quarterly board meeting, the security gates of the Lake Washington estate buzzed with an urgent override code. I was in the library teaching Mia how to sound out words in a Dr. Seuss book when the heavy double doors of the room were pushed open without a knock.
Victoria Sterling stood in the doorway. Behind her were two men in dark suits carrying leather document cases—not lawyers this time, but private investigators.
“Where is my son-in-law?” Victoria demanded, striding into the room without removing her sunglasses. Her eyes swept over the playroom clutter with visceral disgust.
“Julian is at a board meeting, Mrs. Sterling,” I said, standing up immediately and placing myself between her and Mia, who had gone stiff and silent on the window seat. “And you are trespassing. The security guard should not have let you through the gate.”
“I own a thirty-percent equity stake in the holding company that owns this property, Miss Rostova,” Victoria sneered, taking a step toward me. “I don't need permission to visit my deceased daughter’s home. And I certainly don't take orders from an opportunist who seduced her way out of a restaurant apron and into a billionaire's bed.”
The insult was designed to make me lose my temper, to make me scream or act erratically in front of her witnesses. I felt a flush of heat rise up my neck, but I forced my voice to remain icy and flat.
“Your daughter’s children are studying, Mrs. Sterling. If you have legal business with Julian, call his office. Otherwise, leave this room right now before I have the estate security remove you physically.”
Victoria laughed, a dry, humorless sound. She snapped her fingers, and one of the investigators handed her a manila folder. She tossed it onto the mahogany reading table; it slid across the polished wood and stopped inches from my hands.
“Do you really think Julian Vance is going to protect you when the truth about your own past comes out in federal court next week?” Victoria said, her eyes glinting with malice. “We did a deep background check on you, Elena. We know why you left Chicago five years ago. We know about the domestic violence restraining order you filed against your ex-fiancé, and we know about the restaurant fire that left that pretty little scar on your wrist.”
My breath hitched. The library walls suddenly seemed to press inward. I stared at the folder, knowing what was inside—police reports, hospital records, the ugly, messy remnants of a life I had fled across the country to escape after a man I trusted tried to ruin me.
“You’re a victim, Elena,” Victoria said softly, her voice dripping with mock pity. “A damaged, unstable woman who attracts violence and chaos. How do you think a family court judge is going to view Julian when we present evidence that he brought a woman with a history of violent domestic trauma into a house with three psychologically fragile children?”
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She leaned closer, her perfume—the heavy, suffocating scent of jasmine and musk—filling my lungs.
“Pack your bags and leave Seattle by Friday,” Victoria whispered. “If you walk away now, I’ll ensure Beatrice takes a plea deal that keeps Julian’s name out of the papers, and I’ll give you half a million dollars to start a new life in California. If you stay, I will submit this folder into public record, tear Julian’s parental rights away, and make sure you never work with children again.”
