If you want to be Silas’s wife, you take care of his mess, or you get back on the plane to Ohio.
Part 1
My future mother-in-law, high-powered Hollywood producer Victoria Finch, handed me a brass key at the gates of a gated Topanga Canyon estate and drove off in her limousine.
I walked inside expecting a quiet pre-wedding dinner with my fiancé Silas Montgomery, but instead, I found seven filthy, starving children locked inside the darkened mansion with no electricity and $18 in the pantry.
Four of those seven children were secret kids Silas and Victoria had hidden from the public for six years to preserve his $50 million action-hero bachelor image.
Silas was nowhere to be found, and the eldest boy, seventeen-year-old Eli, stood at the top of the stairs holding an iron poker, telling me I’d be gone by morning like the rest of them.
The heavy iron gates clicked shut behind Victoria Finch’s sleek black limousine. Its taillights vanished around the bend of the winding driveway, leaving me in the sudden, oppressive quiet of the Topanga Canyon evening.
The air was still, thick with the scent of dry chaparral and something else I couldn’t quite place – a faint, cloying mustiness. Above, the sky was a bruised purple, fading quickly into inky blackness.
I gripped the cold brass key Victoria had pressed into my palm. It felt heavy, a burden.
The mansion before me was a hulking shadow against the twilight, its grand facade shrouded in an unsettling darkness. Not a single light glowed from any window.
My heart thudded a frantic rhythm against my ribs. This wasn’t the romantic, candlelit dinner Silas had promised. This was a nightmare.
I pushed the heavy front door open. It groaned, a mournful sound that echoed through the cavernous foyer. The air inside was colder, stale and still, as if no one had opened a window in months.
The faint scent of dust and something vaguely organic, like old food left too long, prickled my nose.
“Silas?” I called out, my voice swallowed by the vast emptiness.
Only silence answered.
Then, a rustle from the shadows. A small, thin figure darted across my peripheral vision, disappearing behind a grand, unlit staircase.
My breath hitched. My hand flew to my throat.
From the top of those stairs, a boy emerged, silhouetted against a sliver of moonlight filtering through a tall window. He was gaunt, his frame too lean for his height, but his stance was rigid, menacing.
In his hand, he clutched a heavy iron poker, its tip glinting faintly.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Eli Montgomery’s voice was a low growl, laced with a weariness that belied his seventeen years.
“I’m Norah. I’m… I’m looking for Silas.” I tried to keep my voice steady, but a tremor ran through it.
He took a step down, the poker held defensively across his chest. His eyes, even in the gloom, held a raw, feral distrust.
“He’s not here. And you’ll be gone by morning. Just like all the others.”
My gaze swept past him, catching movement in the deeper shadows of the upper hall. Small, frightened faces peered out, then quickly retreated. Children.
Seven of them. My mind reeled, trying to process Victoria’s cryptic message, Silas’s absence, and this terrifying scene.
“No,” I said, my voice gaining strength. “I’m not leaving.”
Eli snorted, a disbelieving sound. “They always say that.”
I ignored him, my eyes adjusting to the dimness. The elegant furniture was draped in dust sheets, some torn, others stained. Toys lay scattered on the marble floor, abandoned mid-play, covered in a fine layer of grit.
A tiny whimper broke the silence. From behind Eli, a little girl, no older than three, peeked out, her hair matted, her eyes wide and red-rimmed.
My resolve hardened. This wasn’t some Hollywood drama. These were neglected children.
“Where’s the fuse box?” I asked, my voice suddenly authoritative. “Or at least some candles.”
Eli just stared at me, poker still raised.
“Come on,” I pressed. “It’s too dark in here. Someone could get hurt.”
He didn’t move, but a flicker of something—surprise? — crossed his face.
I walked past him, heading toward a large, unadorned kitchen. The countertop was cluttered with dirty dishes, a half-eaten can of beans sitting open on a stained cutting board. A single, grimy flashlight lay next to it.
I picked up the flashlight, clicking it on. The weak beam cut through the darkness, revealing more squalor. The pantry door stood ajar.
Inside, a few meager cans and boxes huddled on shelves. I spotted a bag of flour, nearly empty, and a small jar of yeast.
“You’ve got $18 in here,” I murmured, my heart aching.
“It’s enough,” Eli said from the doorway, his voice flat. He still held the poker. “For now.”
I ignored him again, pulling out a large mixing bowl. My grandmother had taught me to bake bread when I was barely old enough to reach the counter. It was a skill I’d used countless times raising my own younger siblings after our parents passed.
It was familiar. It was comforting. And these children needed comfort.
I found a half-used stick of butter in the fridge, its wrapper peeling. I began to hum a quiet tune as I measured the flour, the yeast, and warm water. My hands, calloused from years of caretaking, worked instinctively.
The rhythmic kneading of the dough was a balm. The children, drawn by the dim light and the strange, purposeful sounds, slowly started to emerge from the shadows.
First the little ones, Toby and Daisy, wide-eyed and silent. Then Maya, fourteen, with curious, intelligent eyes, followed by the others—Leo, Sam, Chloe.
They watched me, perched on stools and steps, like a flock of small, wary birds. Eli remained in the doorway, the poker now resting against his leg, but his gaze never left me.
The aroma of fresh bread, even unbaked, began to fill the musty air. It was a defiant scent, a scent of life where there had been none.
As I gently tucked the rising dough into a clean bowl, Eli finally spoke, his voice barely a whisper, the previous menace replaced by something raw and despairing.
“Silas… he can’t come back. Not now. Not ever, probably.”
My hands stilled. I turned to face him, my heart sinking. “What do you mean, ‘can’t’? Where is he, Eli?”
His gaze dropped to the floor, his fists clenching at his sides.
“Victoria… she had him taken. Sent him away to some offshore ‘wellness facility’ weeks ago. Said he was having a nervous breakdown. Told everyone he just needed to ‘find himself’ before the wedding.”
He finally looked up, his eyes burning with a dark, terrible truth.
“But it was all a lie. She had him detained, on false security holds. To keep him from you. From us.”
Part 2
My hands dropped from the bowl. The dough sat, perfectly smooth and round.
My gaze locked on Eli. A cold knot formed in my stomach.
“Detained?” I whispered. “For weeks?”
He nodded slowly, his eyes still holding that deep, weary despair.
“She said it was for his ‘image.’ The action hero. The eligible bachelor.”
“She kept him from his own children?” I couldn’t comprehend it.
Eli’s lip curled.
“Some of them, yeah.”
He gestured vaguely at the younger kids, who were now quietly watching me, a few already nibbling on small pieces of raw dough I had given them.
“Toby, Daisy, and Chloe are Silas’s. From his first marriage.”
He paused, then swallowed hard.
“But Maya, Leo, Sam, and the little one, Ruby… they’re not.”
My breath caught. I looked at Maya, her eyes downcast, a smudge of flour on her cheek. Then at Leo, Sam, and tiny Ruby, who had crawled onto my lap.
“Not Silas’s?” My voice was barely a whisper. “Then… whose are they?”
Eli shook his head.
“Victoria found them. Orphaned child actors. She forced Silas to take them in. Said it would look bad if a studio accident went public. Made it sound like he was doing a good deed, but she hid them. All of them. Said they were ‘secret wards’ for PR.”
He sounded bitter, resigned.
The words hung in the air, heavy and dark. This wasn’t just neglect. This was something far more sinister.
My eyes scanned the large, neglected kitchen. My gaze fell on a large, vintage-looking trunk shoved beneath a dusty counter in the corner. It looked like an old movie prop, covered in intricate carvings, sealed with a tarnished brass lock.
“What’s in there?” I asked, pointing with my chin.
Eli shrugged.
“Victoria’s old papers. Studio junk. She stores old set pieces here.”
I walked toward it, my mind racing. Victoria’s greed, her need for control, the children, Silas’s forced absence. Everything felt connected.
The lock was old, but simple. With a swift, hard yank, I broke the fragile brass. The lid creaked open, revealing stacks of documents and faded photographs.
At the bottom, under a pile of scripts, lay a heavy, official-looking ledger. Its cover was embossed with the Finch Entertainment logo, and the words “Montgomery Child Trust Fund – 2018” were clearly printed across the top.
My fingers trembled as I pulled it out.
Inside, meticulous entries detailed deposits and withdrawals. Each page was watermarked with the studio’s emblem.
My eyes landed on a recurring entry: “Monthly operational expenses – $400,000.”
It was dated every single month since 2018.
$400,000. Every month. For six years.
My breath hitched. This wasn’t expenses. This was theft. Totaling $4.8 million stolen from these children.
This was Victoria Finch’s signature.
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