Chapter 3: The Drop of the Silver Scissors and the Collapsing World of Victoria Sterling
The question hung in the cavernous air of the grand foyer like a falling guillotine blade.
Why is my wife on the floor?
For three agonizing seconds, the words echoed against the marble walls, refusing to dissipate. The hundreds of elegantly dressed guests standing on the sweeping staircase froze in mid-motion, champagne glasses half-raised to their lips, their minds struggling to process the impossible sentence.
Wife?
Victoria Sterling’s arrogant smirk vanished as if it had never existed. The cruel, triumphant light in her eyes was instantly extinguished, replaced by a sudden, violent void of comprehension. She slowly turned her head away from the kneeling maid and looked up at the towering, terrifying figure of Julian Vance standing before her.
The silver scissors in Victoria’s hand suddenly felt as heavy as lead, burning her palm. Her fingers went entirely limp.
Clatter.
The scissors slipped from her loosened grip, striking the polished marble floor with a sharp, echoing ring that sounded like a gunshot in the dead silence. The heavy metal bounced once before sliding across the stone, coming to a rest right beside the shattered ceramic pieces of the large potted white orchid that had been overturned during the scuffle.
Victoria’s jaw dropped slack. Her chest heaved under the shimmering metallic gold wrap gown as a cold, paralyzing wave of dread washed over her entire body. Her pale face turned the color of ash, every trace of her high-society vanity stripped away in a single, merciless heartbeat. She looked from Julian’s furious, unblinking glare down to the pregnant maid kneeling at her feet, and the horrifying architectural truth of her mistake began to construct itself in her mind.
Elena was not a random staff member hired from an agency. Elena was Julian Vance’s wife. The reclusive billionaire, the man who guarded his private life with fanatical secrecy, the man who could crush any corporate dynasty in New York with a single phone call—had secretly married a quiet, gentle woman and placed her inside his own estate, perhaps to observe the true nature of the people who begged for his favor.
And Victoria had just dragged her by the hair, scratched her forehead, and threatened her with scissors in front of the entire American elite.
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Whispers began to ripple through the crowd on the staircase like wind through dry grass. Panic, sharp and contagious, spread among the socialites. Men who had spent millions courting Julian Vance’s business suddenly felt their knees weaken. Women who had fawned over Victoria Sterling a moment ago took three synchronized steps backward, distancing themselves from the walking corpse that Victoria had suddenly become.
Victoria’s breath came in short, panicked gasps. Her long blonde hair, usually styled to absolute perfection, felt heavy and suffocating around her shoulders. She wanted to speak, to offer an apology, to stammer out an excuse about a misunderstanding, but her throat was completely paralyzed. The queen bee of Newport society had just stepped on a landmine of her own making, and the countdown to her absolute destruction had officially begun.
