Chapter 4: The West Chester Ledger
The private study smelled of aged leather, pipe tobacco, and damp earth brought in from the conservatory. Viktor sat behind the massive mahogany desk, a thick leather-bound ledger open before him. The morning light cut through the tall arched windows, illuminating the intricate dark tattoos creeping up his neck and disappearing beneath his unbuttoned white collar. He didn't look up when the heavy door clicked shut behind me.
"Sit down, Evelyn," he said, gesturing to the wingback chair opposite him without lifting his eyes from the pages.
I didn't move. I stood by the door, my hands clasped tightly in front of my gray tweed skirt. "I have nothing to say to you that we didn't cover last night, Viktor."
"Really?" He finally looked up, sliding the ledger across the polished wood toward the edge of my side of the desk. "Because it seems to me we missed a few vital details. For instance, the monthly wire transfers from your personal trust account to an account registered under the name Sarah Miller in a quiet suburb three hours north."
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. "That's charity work. You know I support regional orphanages."
"Sarah Miller isn't an orphanage, Evelyn. She's a licensed foster mother who took in a four-year-old boy matching our son's exact description three months after our child allegedly died in a nursery fire." Viktor stood up, leaning his palms flat on the desk, towering over me. "A fire that my own security team never investigated because I trusted your word."
"He died!" I screamed, the control finally snapping, the pain of a year's worth of gaslighting and isolation boiling over into raw fury. "He died because you brought your enemies into our home! Because men with guns came through our front gates looking for you while I was putting him to sleep in his crib! I had to give him away just to keep him breathing, Viktor, because your life is a toxic waste dump!"
Viktor flinched—just a fraction of an inch, a micro-expression of shock that quickly hardened back into stone. He walked around the desk, stopping two feet away from me. The silence between us was thick with the wreckage of our marriage.
"If you wanted a divorce, you should have asked," Viktor said quietly. "If you wanted to take him away, you should have told me. But you lied to my face, and you made my staff carry your burdens."
"Because you would have locked him in a vault just to keep him safe from your rivals," I said, my voice shaking with tears I refused to let fall. "He deserves to run in the grass. He deserves a normal life, not a gilded cage guarded by men with machine guns."
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Viktor stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. Then, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the folded crayon drawing, placing it gently on top of the ledger.
"Get your coat," he said flatly. "We're going for a drive."
