Chapter 12 - Victoria at the Threshold
Victoria called my office on a Monday afternoon and asked for a meeting.
My assistant informed her that any matters relating to Halcyon or Vance Enterprises belonged with the independent reviewers and counsel.
She called back an hour later and said the request was personal.
I almost refused outright.
Then Naomi suggested a narrow, witnessed meeting in a neutral location if I believed there might be relevant information, with clear boundaries and no negotiation over the investigation.
We met in a glass-walled conference room at her attorney's office.
Victoria looked different without the silver gown and practiced gala smile.
She wore a simple black jacket and held a tissue tightly between both hands.
“You must hate me,” she began.
“I don't want to spend my life doing that,” I said.
She swallowed.
“Julian told me your marriage was over.”
“Then why did you stand beside him in my kitchen?”
She looked down.
“Because I wanted to believe what was convenient.”
I appreciated the answer more than an elaborate excuse.
It did not make the betrayal smaller.
But it was at least a sentence that acknowledged her choice.
“I didn't know you owned Sterling,” she continued.
“Neither did Julian.”
“That's clear.”
Her voice shook.
“He says you're going to ruin both of us.”
“The independent review isn't a punishment I can cancel.”
“I know.”
“Then what do you want?”
Victoria reached into her bag and withdrew a sealed envelope.
Her lawyer immediately raised a hand.
“We will provide any materials through appropriate channels,” he said.
“Victoria is here to communicate her willingness to cooperate.”
I sat back.
“Then cooperate.”
She stared at me.
“You make it sound simple.”
“It's not simple,” I replied.
“But it's the right next step.”
She began to cry quietly.
“I was afraid of losing my career.”
“Lena Ortiz was afraid too.”
Victoria looked sharply at me.
“I didn't know she was talking.”
“I won't discuss witnesses.”
The room became very still.
She finally said that Julian had asked her to supervise communications strategies involving our divorce and had argued that aggressive public narratives were ordinary business defense.
She claimed some invoices described work that did not match what had been delivered.
Her lawyer cautioned that any formal account would be given to investigators.
I kept my hands folded in my lap.
“Victoria, I won't promise you immunity, and I won't bargain over facts.”
She nodded.
“I didn't expect you to.”
“Then tell the truth to the people authorized to investigate.”
She took a breath.
“I will.”
When I rose to leave, she asked one final question.
“Did you ever really love him?”
I stared at her.
It was a strange question from the woman who had helped him humiliate me.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Very much.”
Her face crumpled.
For the first time, I wondered whether she had been telling herself that my marriage was meaningless because acknowledging its reality would make her choices impossible to bear.
I left without offering friendship or absolution.
Those were not mine to supply on demand.
Back at Sterling, Mara said Victoria's attorney had contacted the special committee to arrange an interview and document production.
“Do you think she'll follow through?” I asked.
“We'll judge by what she actually provides.”
That afternoon, I visited the print shop downstairs.
Mrs.
Alvarez had been teaching her nephew to operate the antique letterpress we kept for small custom orders.
He handed me a sheet of thick cream paper bearing a simple embossed phrase.
Make something that lasts.
“My father's motto,” I said.
The boy grinned.
“She says you know all about it.”
I ran my fingers over the raised letters.
For years, my marriage had looked impressive from the outside, with its estate, photographs, dinners, and expensive clothes.
But it had not held up under honesty.
The little card was imperfect, the ink slightly uneven at one corner.
It felt more durable than the glittering version of my life I had tried to preserve.
That night, an independent examiner called Mara with a preliminary observation.
A significant portion of the questioned Halcyon work appeared unsupported or mismatched to billing descriptions.
Other expenses related to genuine services, which meant the investigators needed to separate lawful work from questionable transactions rather than condemn the whole vendor relationship.
It was complicated, unglamorous, and exactly what fairness required.
I looked at the embossed card on my desk.
I could not remake the past.
But I could choose what kind of institution, friendships, and future I built from its wreckage.
A lasting thing needed honest materials.
There was a moment when Victoria reached for her water glass and I noticed how badly her hand trembled.
I remembered the effortless confidence with which she had adjusted Julian's bow tie.
It would have been easy to enjoy seeing her frightened.
Instead I felt a complicated emptiness.
Her choices had hurt me, but suffering was not evidence of growth, and humiliation would not restore what she had helped destroy.
I asked whether she had independent counsel, rather than someone whose loyalty was primarily to Julian.
Her attorney confirmed that he represented her separately.
That mattered, because truth would be harder to obtain if every witness feared one man's retaliation.
Victoria stared at me.
“Why would you care?” she asked.
“Because fairness shouldn't depend on whether I like the person involved,” I answered.
It was a principle I hoped I could continue to live by after the adrenaline of confrontation faded.
After I left Victoria's office, I walked several blocks rather than return immediately to the car.
Traffic lights changed, a street musician played beneath an awning, and people hurried through their afternoons without knowing anything about our private catastrophe.
I was grateful for their indifference.
Victoria would have to face the consequences of her own choices, and I would have to face mine.
Neither of us could rewrite the gala, but the next truthful act was still available.
I decided that was enough to ask of the day.
May you like
I walked away knowing that tomorrow would demand the same honest courage I had practiced today.
I would meet it without pretending the past could be undone.
