Chapter 7
Everyone turned.
A uniformed building security guard stepped into the hallway, confused and out of breath.
“Ms. Bennett,” he called, “there’s a courier downstairs. He says he has a hand-delivery from Blue Ribbon Properties.”
Grace’s eyes sharpened. “Do not accept anything.”
The guard looked down at the package in his hands.
Too late.
It was a slim black box tied with a blue ribbon.
No one breathed.
Daniel whispered, “Olivia, step away.”
The police officer moved toward the guard.
But before he reached him, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I stared at it, every nerve in my body turning to ice.
Grace shook her head. “Do not answer.”
But the phone answered itself.
The speaker clicked on.
For a moment, there was only static.
Then a man’s voice emerged. Smooth. Older. Amused.
“Hello, Olivia.”
Margaret closed her eyes like a condemned woman hearing the executioner enter.
The voice continued.
“I knew your father would make this difficult. Arthur always confused cleverness with control.”
My hands curled into fists.
“Victor Sloane,” I said.
A faint chuckle.
“Some people still call me that.”
Brandon took one step forward. “Who are you?”
The voice ignored him.
“Olivia, inside that box is an invitation. Come to the greenhouse tonight, alone, and I will tell you what your father never dared to confess.”
Grace mouthed no.
Victor heard the silence and seemed to enjoy it.
“Bring the key. Bring no police. Bring no lawyers. And do not waste time searching for me through Sterling Point. By noon, half their servers will be ash.”
Richard Vale stood abruptly on the laptop screen.
Victor laughed again.
“Oh, Richard. Still pretending you are surprised?”
Richard’s face collapsed.
Evelyn March turned toward him slowly. “What did you do?”
The call cut off.
For one heartbeat, no one moved.
Then every screen connected to Sterling Point went black.
Grace grabbed my shoulders. “Olivia, listen to me. You are not going anywhere alone.”
But I was staring at Richard Vale’s frozen, darkened square on my laptop.
Because in the final second before the screen died, I had seen something behind him.
A portrait on the wall.
A man with cold eyes.
A silver watch.
The same face from Margaret’s fireplace.
Julian Hawthorne.
Victor Sloane.
And standing beside him in the portrait, smiling like a daughter, was me.
Not now.
Not grown.
May you like
A little girl in a blue dress.
Holding his hand.
