If you want to be Silas’s wife, you take care of his mess, or you get back on the plane to Ohio.
The flash drive Julian Drake had given me felt like a live wire in my hand. Its cold, metallic surface seemed to hum with untold secrets.
“What is it?” Eli asked, his eyes fixed on the small device. He had followed me back inside, his earlier suspicion replaced by a cautious curiosity.
“A key,” I whispered, holding it up. “To Victoria’s private office. Julian Drake gave it to me.”
Eli’s jaw tightened. “Drake? He’s her lapdog. He set up most of the fake stories about Silas after Mom died.”
“Maybe he’s not anymore,” I said, remembering the weary look in Julian’s eyes. “He saw the bread. He saw the children. He saw Victoria panic.”
The flash drive, Julian’s subtle actions, it all pointed to the subterranean screening room mentioned in the outline.
We searched the house. It was a sprawling, confusing labyrinth of rooms, many locked, many filled with dusty, forgotten furniture. Finally, behind a hidden panel in the library, we found a narrow, winding staircase leading down into darkness.
The air grew cool and damp as we descended. At the bottom, a heavy, soundproof door stood, steel-reinforced and clearly designed to keep things in—or out.
A small keypad shimmered in the dim light. I inserted the flash drive into a port beside it. The drive glowed green, and a series of numbers flashed on the screen. The access code.
Eli watched over my shoulder as I punched in the sequence. The door hissed open, revealing a meticulously organized, state-of-the-art screening room. Plush leather seats, a massive screen, and racks of media equipment lined the walls.
This was Victoria’s inner sanctum.
But what truly caught my eye were the neatly labeled video depositions stacked on a side table. Each one bore a date: 2018. The same year as the trust receipt I’d found.
“Play one,” I told Eli, my voice tight.
He selected a tape, inserted it into a playback deck, and the large screen flickered to life.
The grainy video showed a younger Silas Montgomery. He was thinner, his eyes haunted, sitting opposite a stony-faced Victoria Finch. His hands trembled as he spoke, his voice raw with emotion.
“You can’t do this, Victoria,” Silas pleaded, his voice cracking on the screen. “They’re my children! All of them! I want to adopt Toby, Leo, Sam, Maya, Eli, Daisy, and Chloe legally. Give them my name.”
Victoria’s voice, cold and sharp, cut him off. “Silas, you have three biological children. The others are orphaned child actors. Finch Entertainment is not responsible for them. Your image is the studio’s most valuable asset. A bachelor, an action hero, not a father of seven.”
She leaned forward in the video, her eyes like chips of ice. “If you pursue this, Silas, I will personally ensure your career is destroyed. Every contract will be nullified. Every cent of your earnings will be tied up in litigation. I will bankrupt you, and I will take full guardianship of all seven children myself. They will be hidden away, forgotten, and you will never see them again.”
On the screen, Silas buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
Eli stood frozen beside me, watching his father’s breakdown, his own face a mask of dawning horror and pain. His earlier cynicism about Silas melted away, replaced by profound sadness.
“He tried,” Eli whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “He really tried to keep us.”
The video continued, a chilling testament to Victoria’s ruthless control. It wasn’t Silas who had abandoned his children for fame. It was Victoria, pulling every string, wielding every threat, to preserve her studio’s bottom line.
Silas hadn’t been a willing participant in their abandonment. He had been a captive, just like us.
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