Chapter 3 - Blood and Ink
The grandfather clock in the mahogany library chimed two in the morning. Damian sat behind an expansive oak desk, swirling two fingers of scotch. When Clara entered, escorted by the head housekeeper, Damian gestured to the leather armchair opposite him.
""Sit,"" he said. It wasn’t a request, but it lacked the cruelty he had shown Victoria.
Clara remained standing. ""I prefer to stand, Mr. Vance. If this is about the incident with Miss Sterling, I didn't mean to cause an embarrassment. But nobody treats an elderly woman like that under my watch. Rich or poor.""
A ghost of an amused smirk touched Damian’s lips, then vanished. ""Miss Sterling got what she earned. I don't tolerate snakes, regardless of their bloodline. But that’s not why you're here."" He slid a velvet-lined wooden tray across the desk. On it rested a magnifying glass and an old black-and-white photograph.
""Take off the locket,"" Damian commanded gently.
Clara hesitated, then unhooked the tarnished silver chain and placed it on the green felt. Damian leaned forward, using the magnifying glass to examine the worn crest engraved on the back—a swallow soaring above an anchor, the signature seal of the Vance family silversmith from fifty years ago.
""My mother gave this to her firstborn child,"" Damian revealed, his voice raw. ""A sister born out of wedlock when my mother was just eighteen. Her conservative father forced her to give the infant up for adoption before sending her abroad. For thirty-five years, Eleanor believed that child had died in a foster care fire in Chicago.""
Clara felt the floor tilt beneath her feet. ""My mother... Sarah... was adopted from Chicago.""
Damian looked up, his gaze searing into hers. ""Sarah passed away eight years ago, didn't she? In an Appalachian clinic?""
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""How do you know that?"" Clara gasped, tears stinging her eyes.
""Because private investigators don't stop searching when a billionaire pays them,"" Damian answered, his knuckles whitening around his glass. ""Sarah was my half-sister, Clara. Which means you are not my mother's waitress."" He paused, the gravity of his words shaking the silent room. ""You are her granddaughter.""
