The sharp click of Victoria's stiletto heels echoed through the marble halls of her sprawling estate. The house was as cold and immaculate as its mistress — floors polished to a mirror sheen, priceless art carefully curated on the walls. Nothing was out of place. Nothing ever was.
At least, not until today.
Victoria stalked into her private study, the heavy oak door thudding shut behind her. Her assistant, a nervous young woman named Carla, trailed after her, clutching a stack of trembling papers.
"Madam… I didn't know where else to take this. It's… you need to see it."
Victoria didn't even look at her. She poured herself a glass of wine, deep crimson swirling like blood in crystal. "Speak, Carla. And do try to sound less like a mouse choking on its tail."
Carla swallowed, pushing a manila envelope across the mahogany desk. "It's… a private investigator called. He said Isabel — Isabel Rivera — has been asking about Edwin Clarke. She visited his office this morning. Clarke's secretary said they argued. Loudly."
Victoria's hand froze halfway to her lips. The wineglass tilted, dripping a bead of red onto her white silk blouse. Slowly, she set the glass down.
"Isabel Rivera?" she said, each syllable precise, like the click of a gun being cocked. "Are you telling me that girl is digging around in my business?"
Carla nodded, her voice barely a whisper. "He said Clarke looked terrified. He thinks she's gathering evidence. About… Emily John."
The name — the name she'd buried so long ago — slithered through Victoria's mind like a viper. Emily John. The girl she'd called stepdaughter, nuisance, obstacle. The girl she'd silenced with a vial of poison and a carefully arranged cover story.
For years, it had been the perfect crime. No body to investigate. No living heirs to contest the fortune. And Clarke — the bumbling fool — had played his part beautifully.
And now this… Isabel Rivera. A ghost with her old face.
Victoria's fingers drummed on the desk. Calm, she told herself. Stay calm. You always have a plan.
"Did you tell Clarke to keep his mouth shut?" she asked, her voice silk over steel.
Carla shifted from foot to foot. "I… I couldn't reach him. His office said he's gone home for the day."
"Gone home?" Victoria barked a laugh — harsh, humorless. "The coward is probably holed up in some cheap motel with his pathetic conscience. No matter. I'll handle him."
She rose from her chair, gliding to the tall windows that overlooked her manicured gardens. The roses below were in full bloom — red, white, pink — their petals trembling in the breeze. So delicate. So easily crushed.
She could almost see Emily's face in those roses — pale, beautiful, stubborn. And now Isabel's, too. A mirror image she hadn't expected.
The rage simmered beneath her perfectly painted mask. How dare that little brat claw her way back from the grave? How dare she threaten to pull Victoria's kingdom down around her?
Behind her, Carla cleared her throat. "Madam, there's… more."
Victoria turned, eyes narrowed. "Well? Spit it out."
Carla's hands shook as she held out her phone. "There's a recording… on the news. Someone leaked a clip. It's Clarke's voice. He's admitting you… you altered Mr. John's will. That you forged documents."
Victoria snatched the phone. There it was — Edwin Clarke's reedy, pathetic voice quivering through the tinny speaker:
"She — she threatened me. She made me forge the will. I didn't know about the poisoning until it was too late…"
Victoria's blood turned to ice. For a moment, the room seemed to spin around her — the carefully laid walls of her empire cracking under a single whisper.
Carla flinched as Victoria hurled the phone against the far wall. It shattered, plastic and glass skittering across the floor.
"Find Clarke," she hissed, every word dripping venom. "Find Isabel. I don't care how. Pay whoever you need. Bribe, threaten, blackmail — I want them both silenced before they can do any more damage."
Carla squeaked, bowing her head. "Yes, madam."
"And Carla?" Victoria's voice softened — dangerously so. She reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Carla's pale cheek. "If you breathe a word of this — to anyone — I'll make sure your family never sees you again. Do you understand?"
Carla nodded, eyes wide with terror. "Yes, madam. I swear."
Victoria watched her scurry out of the study like a mouse escaping a cat's claws. She stood alone, breathing hard, the mask of calm cracking at the edges.
She stalked back to her desk, sinking into the leather chair that had once belonged to her late husband — the man she'd poisoned when he'd dared to stand in her way. She'd done what she had to do. She'd always done what she had to do.
Survival required sacrifice. It required power.
But now the dead were clawing at her door, demanding answers. Isabel Rivera — Emily's ghost — would not be so easily buried.
Victoria steepled her fingers under her chin, mind racing. So… the girl wants a war. Let her have one.
She'd survived scandal before. Whispers. Suspicion. She always found a way to twist the narrative back in her favor. She'd done it when her husband died. When Emily's death was declared an accident. She'd even kept Edwin Clarke under her thumb all these years.
But this time felt different. This time, the threat had a face — and that face was her past reborn. This time, the girl knew the truth.
A wicked smile spread across Victoria's lips. Isabel thought she could play at vengeance. She thought she could expose decades of secrets with a single recording.
Let her try. Victoria would drown her in lies, bury her under scandal, ruin her name before the world even knew who she truly was.
She rose again, pacing like a lioness in her den, the moonlight slanting across the polished floor. One call to the right detective. One bribe to the right reporter. One carefully planted rumor, and Isabel would be just another unstable nobody.
She picked up her landline and dialed a number she knew by heart. When the gravelly voice answered, she didn't bother with pleasantries.
"Raymond. It's Victoria. I have a job for you. I need a girl… contained. Quietly. No mess."
She listened, her painted nails tapping the desk as the man confirmed his price. Expensive, but worth every penny.
When she finally hung up, she felt her pulse slow, the panic replaced by that familiar rush of cold, hard power. Isabel Rivera would wish she'd stayed dead.
Victoria poured another glass of wine, watching the moon rise over her perfect garden. She took a slow sip, her reflection staring back at her from the black glass of the window.
"Let's see who's really out for vengeance, my dear," she murmured. "I've killed before. And I'll do it again."
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End of Chapter.