Chapter 2 - The Ghost of Sterling Manor
The rain lashed against the tinted windows of the Maybach as the driver steered past the wrought-iron gates of Northridge Estate. The ironwork formed two intertwined *S*’s—the insignia of Sterling Global, an empire Richard had spent the last three years trying to swallow whole.
My mother, Victoria Sterling, had died fourteen months ago. To the world, her death was the tragic end of an era. To Richard, it had been an opening bell. The moment her casket hit the earth, he believed the Sterling fortune was an orphaned beast waiting for his bridle. He thought I was soft, raised in silk and shielded from the blood that built the foundation.
He had forgotten whose blood ran in my veins.
The car stopped in front of the stone portico of the darkened manor. The headlights illuminated a solitary figure standing under the overhang with a black umbrella: Thomas, my mother’s lifelong head of security and the only man who knew where the real bodies were buried.
When I stepped out, shivering violently in my soaked, torn evening gown, Thomas didn’t gasp. He didn’t drop the umbrella. His jaw tightened until the tendons stood out like wire cables.
“Mrs. Foster,” he said, his voice level despite the murder in his eyes.
“Thomas,” I whispered. My lip split again as I spoke, warm metallic salt flooding my mouth.
He stepped forward, shielding me with the umbrella, his gaze scanning the ligature burns on my wrists and the eight distinct purple bruises blooming across my cheekbones and jaw.
“Is he alone?” Thomas asked quietly.
“He thinks I’m dead on the terrace. Or freezing until sunrise.”
“Then he is already dead,” Thomas replied, opening the heavy mahogany double doors. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”
Inside, the manor smelled of polished cedar, aged paper, and French lavender—my mother’s ghost, preserved in amber. The lights flickered on, warm and amber against the marble foyer. A basin of warm antiseptic water, clean linens, and a heavy cashmere robe were already waiting on the sideboard.
“Dr. Vance is forty minutes away,” Thomas said, handing me a glass of cognac. “He will document every contusion, laceration, and hematoma for the record. The chain of custody on the evidence will be airtight.”
I took the glass with trembling hands, the amber liquid burning down my throat, searing away the terrace chill and leaving only cold, clean fury.
“I don’t want the doctor first, Thomas.” I pulled the cashmere robe tightly around my bruised ribs. “Take me to the basement study. Take me to Mother’s safe.”
May you like
Thomas paused, looking at me with something approaching awe. For three years, I had played the obedient socialite wife, begging him not to antagonize Richard, pleading for peace in a home that was turning into a slaughterhouse.
“Right away, Miss Jasmine,” he said, using my maiden title for the first time in five years.
