Page 24
She needed a minute to herself. She needed to feel like she was back in control, surrounded by data and logic, rather than flour and chaos. She slipped into Joe's old office, shutting the door firmly behind her.
The room smelled of stale pipe tobacco, old leather, and dust. The heavy oak desk was cluttered with unfiled papers and a tarnished brass lamp.
Victoria sat down in the leather chair. She opened her laptop, intending to draft an email to the legal team in New York regarding zoning laws. She needed a specific tax document to reference the property lines.
She began opening the drawers. The top two were filled with old pens and useless receipts. She stood up and moved to the tall wooden cabinet in the corner. The doors stuck, swollen from the damp, and she had to yank them hard.
The bottom shelf was stacked with yellowing cardboard boxes labeled in black marker. But tucked in the very back, wedged behind a stack of old phone books, was a smaller box. It had no label. It was sealed with heavy packing tape that had dried out and yellowed with age.
Victoria frowned. She pulled the box out. It was surprisingly heavy. She set it on the center of the oak desk. A strange, completely irrational apprehension settled in her stomach. She reached for a metal letter opener, slid the blade under the brittle tape, and sliced it open.
She pulled back the cardboard flaps. The first thing she saw was a faded crimson hue. It was a small wooden boat, carved with painstaking care. Next to it rested a wooden horse, its mane etched into the grain with delicate, precise strokes. The air caught hard in Victoria’s throat, locking the silence in the room.
She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly, and picked up the wooden horse. The wood was smooth, worn down as if it had been turned over in someone's hands hundreds of times. Carved into the underbelly, barely visible, were three letters: V. E. S.
Victoria Elizabeth Sterling.
Her stomach dropped. She set the horse down and looked back into the box. Beneath the wooden toys was a stack of envelopes, bound together with a brittle rubber band.
Victoria pulled them out. The rubber band snapped instantly against her skin. There were at least forty envelopes. She looked at the top one.
It was addressed to her. Victoria Sterling, 450 Park Avenue, New York, NY.
In the top right corner, stamped in harsh red ink over the postage, were the words: RETURN TO SENDER. REFUSED.
Victoria’s heart began to pound a frantic, sickening rhythm against her sternum. She grabbed the next envelope. Return to Sender. And the next. Return to Sender.
She looked at the postmarks. 2000. 2001. 2004. 2006.
She already knew Harrison had lied about Joe dying when she was fourteen. She had processed that betrayal a few days ago. But looking at the dates stamped on the envelopes, a new, much more violent wave of nausea hit her.
He hadn't just lied once. Harrison had intercepted her mail. He had actively, systematically built a wall to keep Joe out, stamping Return to Sender on a lonely man's attempts to reach his granddaughter year after year.
She tore open the top envelope, her manicured nails ripping the paper. Inside was a birthday card. The front had a watercolor illustration of a cat. Inside, the handwriting was slightly shaky.
My dearest Victoria, Happy 16th Birthday. I don't know if you like cats, but I hope you do. The weather here has been terrible, but the roses are starting to come in. I imagine you are getting so tall now. I am so proud of the young woman I know you are becoming. I love you very much. Love, Grandpa Joe.
Victoria stared at the handwriting until the ink began to swim. A single tear slipped free, cold against her cheek, and she left it there.
Joe hadn't abandoned her. He had spent his entire life trying to reach through the void, loving her fiercely from across an ocean, and Victoria was currently plotting to tear down the only thing he had left behind just to secure a corporate payout from the very man who had kept them apart. The hypocrisy was a physical weight crushing her lungs.
Her phone buzzed violently against the wood of the desk, shattering the silence.
She wiped the tear from her face with the back of her hand, her skin freezing, and picked it up. The caller ID displayed Harrison's name.
The sting in her eyes evaporated, instantly replaced by a surge of pure, liquid nitrogen fury. She stared at the screen for three long rings, forcing her breathing to steady, locking the devastation away behind a reinforced vault of ice. She answered the call.
"Victoria," Harrison’s gravelly voice boomed through the speaker, crisp and impatient. "I trust you're not still unpacking bags. Tell me you have an update on the Vance acquisition."
"I am currently on-site, Harrison," Victoria said, keeping her tone perfectly smooth.
"And? Have you contacted Vance's acquisition team yet? We need to lock his interest down before he starts entertaining pitches in Scotland."
Victoria looked down at the watercolor cat on the birthday card.
"I haven't pitched it to his assistants yet, because I don't present incomplete dossiers," Victoria said, keeping her tone dead level. "I need to run a full audit on the property and the surrounding acreage to maximize the valuation. We need to know exactly how many millions we can extract from Vance before we sit at the table."
Harrison chuckled, a low, approving sound that made Victoria’s stomach turn. "Smart. Bleed the asset dry, maximize the land value. But remember the clock is ticking, Victoria. I agreed to accelerate your vesting clause, but you have until September to hand Vance the keys. Don't waste too much time playing innkeeper if you want your board seat and your shares."
