The footage cut to Victoria standing on the steps of the courthouse, flanked by four high-powered defense attorneys. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face completely pale, the image of an innocent, grieving bride.
*‘I tried to save her,’* Victoria sobbed into the bank of microphones, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. *‘The server was rushing with an overloaded tray, lost control, and barreled into my new mother-in-law. When I reached out to stop them both from going over, the server lashed out at me! I am devastated that Nathaniel is being manipulated by those seeking to profit from our family’s tragedy…’*
“What a lying witch!” Maya yelled from the back seat, nearly spilling her hot chocolate. She adjusted her glasses, glaring at the screen. “Rose! She’s trying to say you did it!”
Rose turned off the screen with a sharp tap of her finger. “It doesn’t matter what she says to the cameras, Maya. The truth doesn’t care about a press conference.”
“She’s buying time,” Nathaniel’s voice came from the jump seat across from them.
He had been reviewing documents on a tablet since they left Manhattan, barely pausing to sip his black coffee. He looked up, his expression dark.
“Arthur Sterling has three major media conglomerates in his back pocket,” Nathaniel said calmly, though the coldness in his tone was unmistakable. “He’s running a public relations smear campaign to taint the jury pool before the grand jury even convenes. If he can convince the public that you were reckless, he creates reasonable doubt.”
“Can he do that?” Rose asked, her hands tightening in her lap. The gauze on her palms pulled at her healing stitches. “There were two hundred people on that terrace!”
“Two hundred people who rely on Sterling and Callaway capital to fund their businesses,” Nathaniel pointed out ruthlessly. “Half of them will claim they were looking at their champagne glasses. Fear makes cowards out of the wealthy faster than poverty ever could.”
He tapped his tablet, turning it toward Rose.
On the screen was a high-resolution photograph of a leather-bound folio.
“This is what my mother was carrying yesterday,” Nathaniel said. “It was recovered from the sixty-fourth-floor maintenance ledge where it landed after Victoria shoved her. It was damaged, but the forensic team salvaged the contents.”
Rose leaned in, Maya peering over her shoulder.
“What is it?” Rose asked.
“The Sterlings are bankrupt,” Nathaniel stated flatly. “Their residential developments in Florida and London are hollow shells financed by illegal offshore loans. Arthur Sterling used eighty million dollars of client escrow funds to cover margin calls three weeks ago. Victoria didn’t marry me for love, or even for social standing. She married me because the moment the marriage certificate was filed, our corporate accounts would have merged, automatically covering the deficit before the Federal Trade Commission discovered the fraud.”
Rose’s breath hitched. “And your mother found out?”
“My mother’s forensic team found the paper trail two hours before the ceremony,” Nathaniel said, his eyes narrowing to slits. “She confronted Victoria on that terrace, telling her she was going to call the Department of Justice before the reception ended. Victoria realized her family was headed for federal prison. If my mother ‘accidentally’ died before she could deliver the files, Victoria would have had weeks to clean up the accounts as my wife while I was buried in grief.”
“She’s a monster,” Maya whispered, shivering despite the heated leather seats.
“She’s desperate,” Nathaniel corrected coldly. “And desperate animals are dangerous.”
The Escalade turned off the winding coastal road and swept through a pair of towering wrought-iron gates that looked three hundred years old. A private security team with bomb-sniffing dogs checked the undercarriage before waving the vehicle through.
Rose looked out the window and gasped.
The Greenwich estate was not just a house; it was an empire unto itself. Hundreds of acres of rolling emerald lawns swept down toward the glittering waters of the Long Island Sound. Century-old weeping willows lined the private drive, framing a French-chateau-style stone manor that looked like something out of a European fairytale.
Further down a sun-dappled gravel path sat a charming, two-story stone cottage with ivy creeping up its chimney and large bay windows looking out over a private rose garden.
“That is the Gatehouse,” Nathaniel said, watching Rose’s reaction carefully. “It has been fully furnished. The kitchen is stocked. There are two bedrooms on the second floor, each with an en-suite bath. Your sister will have the garden to read in, and there is a round-the-clock security perimeter fifty yards out.”
Rose turned to Nathaniel, her throat tight with an emotion she wasn’t used to feeling: overwhelming relief.
“Mr. Callaway… Nathaniel,” she began, her voice wavering. “I don’t know how to thank you. Even if this is just for the job… you have no idea what this means for Maya.”
