Chapter 2: Whispers in the Dressing Suite
The heavy oak door of the private dressing suite clicked shut, locking behind us with a finality that made my stomach drop. Viktor didn't turn on the overhead lights; he let the warm amber glow from the hallway bleed through the transom, casting long, fractured shadows across the velvet chaise lounge and my vanity mirror. He stood by the window, looking out over the rain-slicked gravel drive where black town cars idled in the dark.
"You lied to me downstairs," Viktor said softly, not raising his voice. In many ways, his quiet tones were infinitely more dangerous than his shouting.
I unclasped the ruby necklace, my fingers clumsy against the cold metal until it dropped onto the glass top of the vanity with a sharp clink. "I didn't lie, Viktor. I protected you from a silly misunderstanding. You know how people fabricate stories about us for the society columns."
He turned slowly, his white shirt collar stark against the dark wool of his suit jacket and the ink curling up his neck. "People don't draw crayon sketches of a family unit and leave them in my private quarters unless they are trying to send a message. And Emma didn't find it in the trash. My security team checked the service hallway cameras thirty minutes ago."
My breath caught. I forced myself to meet his dark eyes in the mirror's reflection. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying Emma pulled that drawing out of your locked writing desk, Evelyn. The one you claim you lost the key to last month." He stepped closer, the floorboards groaning faintly beneath his polished shoes. "Whose child is that on the paper?"
"It's a drawing," I whispered, the defiance draining out of me, leaving only a cold, hollow shell. "Just a drawing."
"A drawing of a boy with dark hair. About four years old. The same age our son would have been if he hadn't passed away in that accident." Viktor's voice tightened, carrying a sharp edge of genuine fury. "Or are you telling me he didn't pass away?"
The air in the room grew suffocating. My mind raced through a dozen desperate denials, but the look in his eyes told me he had already connected threads I thought I had buried forever. He wasn't just a ruthless businessman protecting his public image; he was a man hunting for a ghost I had tried to keep alive.
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"He's gone, Viktor," I managed to say, my voice cracking despite my best efforts. "You know he's gone."
"Then why are you crying?" he asked, reaching out to brush a tear from my cheek with the rough pad of his thumb. The touch felt like sandpaper. "Tell me the truth right now, Evelyn, or I'll tear this entire estate apart until I find out who's helping you keep secrets under my roof."
