Chapter 3 - The Fractured Heir
Three weeks later, the cast iron gates of the Sterling Estate creaked open under the cover of a torrential downpour.
I wasn't in a wheelchair anymore. The Sterling bloodline wasn't the only thing built on sheer, stubborn will; my recovery had defied every neurological prognosis. I walked with a cane now, hidden beneath a heavy black rain cloak, my face obscured by the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat.
Julian was alone in the grand library, just as Marcus’s surveillance had predicted. Since my "death," he hadn’t left the estate. Rumors were circulating in the tabloids that the young billionaire was losing his mind, consumed by the ghost of his late wife.
They didn't know how right they were.
I slipped through the side conservatory door, the lock bypassed by Marcus's team. The house was dead quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock and the heavy pouring of rain against the glass. I moved like a specter through the grand hallways, the cane clicking softly against the marble—a sound eerily similar to Victoria's high heels.
I stopped at the threshold of the library. Julian sat at the massive mahogany desk, a half-empty bottle of scotch beside him. His hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, staring intently at the royal blue silk dress hanging from the display mannequin across the room. It was a macabre memorial Victoria had forced him to keep—a twisted reminder of his crime to keep him submissive.
"You shouldn't have kept the dress, Julian," I said, my voice echoing from the shadows. "It holds too much water."
Julian froze. The glass of scotch slipped from his hand, shattering against the hardwood floor. He slowly spun his chair around, his face draining of all color until he looked more like a corpse than I ever did.
"Clara?" he gasped, his voice trembling, his hands flying to his head. "No... no, I'm dreaming. The medication... Mother said the hallucinations would stop."
I stepped out of the shadows, letting the black cloak fall to the floor. I stood before him, leaning heavily on my cane, the scars from the emergency surgeries visible along my collarbone.
"It wasn't a hallucination when you pushed me, Julian," I said, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. "Did you feel the wind? Did you hear the sound my bones made when they hit the flagstones?"
"Get away from me!" he shrieked, scrambling backward, knocking his heavy leather chair over. He pressed his back against the bookshelves, breathing like a cornered rat. "You're dead! I saw the blood! I saw your eyes!"
"I died for ten minutes on that table," I said, my voice dropping to a deadly, calm purr. "But I came back. For you. And for her."
"I didn't want to!" Julian suddenly wept, falling to his knees, covering his face with his hands. "She told me you were going to ruin us! She said if I didn't do it, she would strip me of everything, throw me in prison for the offshore accounts! She forced my hand, Clara! I loved you!"
"If you loved me, you would have jumped with me," I said coldly. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, high-tech digital recorder, placing it on the desk. "Mother is hosting the anniversary gala tomorrow night. You are going to stand on that stage, Julian. And you are going to confess."
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"She'll kill me," he whispered, looking up with absolute terror.
"She already killed you, Julian," I replied, leaning over him. "The moment she turned you into a murderer. Now, you choose who holds the noose: me, or her."
