If you want to be Silas’s wife, you take care of his mess, or you get back on the plane to Ohio.
Silence descended, thick and stunned, after Victoria’s furious outburst. The crowd of reporters, usually so quick to pounce, seemed momentarily paralyzed.
Victoria, her face a mask of scarlet fury, glared at me through the gates. “You will regret this, Norah Bennett,” she hissed, her voice low and venomous. “You will regret this for the rest of your miserable life.”
She tossed the severed cable to the ground as if it were contaminated. Then she whirled around, barking orders at her security team and Gemma’s stunned production crew.
“Pack it up! Now! This broadcast is over!”
Gemma Brooks, pale and visibly shaken, looked from the dead camera to me, then back at Victoria. The realization of how thoroughly she’d been manipulated was dawning on her.
Victoria climbed back into her sleek black SUV, slamming the door. The vehicle sped away, followed by her security detail.
Gemma’s crew began to dismantle their equipment, their faces somber. They avoided my gaze, clearly uncomfortable with what they had just witnessed.
But one man lingered. Julian Drake, Victoria’s chief PR director, a man I’d only seen in brief, cold glimpses in the studio. He was usually impeccably dressed, aloof, a shadow behind Victoria.
Today, however, his composure seemed to crack. He was observing me, and more surprisingly, the children watching from the windows.
He was a tall man, with sharp features and even sharper eyes. He walked slowly past the gate where I stood, still clutching the warm bread and the studio receipt. His footsteps crunched on the gravel.
He paused, pretending to adjust something on his expensive watch. His back was mostly to the remaining crew, but he was facing me.
“That was… quite a performance,” he murmured, his voice low, almost imperceptible over the sounds of equipment being packed. He didn’t sound impressed or dismissive, just… weary.
He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket. His movements were precise, practiced. I watched him, my breath held tight.
His hand emerged, and he quickly, almost imperceptibly, dropped a small, metallic object onto the ground near my feet. It was a silver flash drive, barely visible against the gravel.
Then, with a brisk nod that could have meant anything, he straightened up.
“You’re very determined, Miss Bennett,” he said, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. The words sounded like a professional dismissal, but his eyes, for a fleeting moment, held something else. A flicker of something that looked like… resignation.
He turned and walked towards the remaining production van. He didn’t look back.
My heart pounded a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I waited until the last van had pulled away, until the canyon was quiet once more, save for the whisper of the wind.
Then, I knelt and picked up the flash drive. It was cool against my fingertips, smooth and heavy.
A small, almost invisible symbol was etched into its side: a stylized, interlocking set of initials. V.F.
Victoria Finch’s private office. Inside the estate’s soundproof screening room. The access code to something secret.
Julian Drake, Victoria’s most loyal enforcer, had just given me a key. A key not to the main gates, but to the very heart of Victoria’s hidden operations.
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