Chapter 11 - The Phantom Angle
At 9:30 PM that evening, I was resting in a luxury private suite at the resort, which Arthur Vance had personally arranged for my post-operative recovery week. The pain in my leg was manageable, subdued by prescribed medication, and the quiet rhythm of the ocean outside the window provided a soothing balm to my frayed nerves.
Vesper had stepped out to coordinate with our legal team regarding tomorrow's formal bail hearings for Stellin and Sutton.
The suite was peaceful. The nightmare was supposed to be finished.
Then, my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
A new message from the same encrypted, unknown number that had sent me the staircase video the night before.
I picked it up, expecting a message from Alden’s security team confirming the transmission of the remaining files.
Instead, the screen read:
*“You think you won a battle of wits today, Clara. But you were only reading the lines I wrote for you.”*
My heart gave a strange, violent thump against my ribs.
A new attachment appeared. Another video file.
With cold, trembling fingers, I tapped the screen.
This video wasn't shot from the Vance mezzanine. It was captured from the interior utility corridor behind the rotunda staircase—a private employee hallway that required an executive digital keycard to enter.
The timestamp on the screen was 7:15 PM yesterday—exactly forty-five minutes *before* Sutton shoved me.
On the screen, Sutton was standing in the dim service hallway, talking to someone whose face was obscured by the shadows of the doorway.
*"Are you sure the pins will snap?"* Sutton asked, her voice hushed, nervous, completely lacking the arrogant bravado she had shown earlier.
The shadowed figure handed her a small, folded envelope.
*"The structural integrity of her prior surgical graft is weakest at the medial plate,"* a low, chillingly familiar voice replied from the darkness. *"If you trip her from the third step with lateral pressure, the hardware will fail instantly. She will be forced to sue you, Alden will break the engagement, and the Vance trust will sever all contracts with the Sterling estate."*
Sutton hesitated. *"And the money? The forty-two thousand?"*
*"Charge it to her company card,"* the shadow whispered. *"Make sure the paper trail leads directly to her. We need the entire family utterly destroyed in public, Sutton. That was the deal. Now go upstairs and wait for her."*
My blood turned to pure ice.
Sutton hadn't just acted out of petty, spontaneous jealousy. She had been instructed. Coached. Given medical specifications on my exact physical vulnerability.
And then, the figure in the shadows stepped forward into the hallway’s amber light to close the security door.
The face on the screen made the phone slip from my numb fingers, clattering onto the marble floor.
It wasn't Alden.
It wasn't my father.
May you like
It was Vesper.
And as the realization hit me, the electronic lock on my suite door gave a soft, mechanical *beep*—and the heavy handle slowly began to turn.
