Chapter 2 - The Shattered Glass of Blackwood Manor
The silence that gripped the master suite of Blackwood Manor was thicker than the suffocating mountain fog. Downstairs, the chamber orchestra had abruptly ceased playing. The delicate clinking of crystal flutes had been replaced by the frantic murmurs of three hundred aristocratic guests whose world had just fractured. In the courtyard directly below the broken balcony, the heavy stone baluster lay smashed into powder against the rim of the ancient fountain, surrounded by torn white tulle.
Two armed security guards dragged Victoria to her feet. Blood trickled down her cheekbone from where she had hit the stone wall, matting her auburn hair. Her emerald dress was torn at the shoulder, exposing pale, trembling skin. Yet, despite being physically restrained, she did not look defeated; she looked utterly possessed.
"Get your filthy hands off me!" Victoria spat, thrashing against the guards’ iron grips. Her eyes tore past the staff and locked onto Julian, who was kneeling over Emily, stroking her damp hair with rhythmic, calculated precision. "Tell her, Julian! Tell her what you did to Dad! Tell her before you murder her like the rest of them!"
"She's having a psychotic episode," Julian said smoothly, his voice cutting through the panic with the cool authority of an operating surgeon. He didn't even turn his head to look at Victoria. "Call the private medical transport. Have her sedated and placed under twenty-four-hour psychiatric hold at St. Jude's immediately. Clear the grounds. No press. Not a single camera leaves this estate."
"Julian, wait..." Emily gasped, clutching her belly as a sharp, agonizing contraction ripped across her abdomen. "Victoria... why did she say that? What is she talking about?"
Julian looked down at Emily, his face instantly softening into a portrait of devoted, heart-wrenching agony. "Darling, don't listen to her. Victoria has been unraveling since the board voted to remove her from the trust last month. She blames me for her own financial recklessness. She’s completely lost her mind." He leaned down, his lips brushing Emily’s sweat-soaked forehead. "All that matters right now is you and the baby. The paramedics are taking you to the private wing at St. Jude's."
Elena, the brave maid who had saved Emily's life, knelt beside them, pressing clean linen napkins against the shredded skin of Emily's hands. Elena’s hands were shaking violently, but her eyes were darting between Julian and Victoria.
"Look at his cufflinks, Emily!" Victoria screamed as the guards dragged her backward through the double doors. Her voice was growing hoarse, shredded by desperate panic. "LOOK AT THE GOLD ENGRAVING! HE WAS THERE THAT NIGHT! HE KILLED HIM! HE PLANNED THE BALCONY! THE BALCONY WAS RIGGED—"
A guard clamped a leather-gloved hand over Victoria’s mouth, muffling her screams into pathetic whimpers as they dragged her down the corridor.
Emily tried to sit up, her breath hitching in her throat. Her father, Arthur Vance, had died four months ago in a fiery, single-car rollover on a remote coastal highway. The police had ruled it a tragic accident—brake failure caused by rusted hydraulic lines on a vintage Jaguar. Julian had stepped in the very next day, managing the funeral, taking over the helm of Vance Enterprises, and promising Emily that he would protect what was left of her shattered family.
*Why would Victoria bring up Dad now?* Emily thought, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
As Julian stood up to direct the incoming paramedics, Emily caught sight of his left wrist. His custom French cuff had ridden back during the struggle on the balcony. There, gleaming against the stark white fabric, was a vintage solid-gold cufflink bearing the insignia of an ouroboros—a serpent swallowing its own tail, with a tiny, uncut diamond set into the serpent’s eye.
Emily’s breath stopped.
Her father had collected rare antique jewelry. On the morning he died, Arthur Vance had been wearing that exact pair of cufflinks—an 18th-century heirloom he never took off. When the coroner returned his personal effects after the car was recovered from the ravine, the cufflinks had been listed as *missing, presumed incinerated in the vehicle fire.*
Yet there it was, resting against Julian Sterling’s wrist.
"Paramedics are here, Emily," Julian whispered, crouching back down and taking her hand. His grip was warm, but to Emily, it suddenly felt like a band of freezing steel. "Let them take care of you. I’ll follow in the Maybach right behind the ambulance."
Emily swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She looked into Julian’s crystal-blue eyes—the eyes she had fallen in love with, the eyes she believed held the promise of her future. For the first time in two years, she noticed the faint, rigid tension around his jaw. He wasn't trembling from adrenaline. He wasn't shaken by the fact that his pregnant fiancée had nearly fallen to her death.
May you like
He was annoyed that she hadn't.
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