Chapter 3 - The Secret in the West WingDown the labyrinthine corridors of the estate’s abandoned west wing, the air smelled of dust, old parchment, and rotting wood. Claire tiptoed down the hallway, her bare feet silent against the Persian runners. Her hospital gown billowed behind her like a shroud.
She shouldn't have been out of bed. Her lungs still burned from the near-drowning, and her limbs felt like lead. But the memory of Eleanor’s whisper on the stairs kept her moving.
“You think you won, Claire? The dead don’t inherit empires.”
Claire stopped in front of a heavy oak door marked with a brass plaque: ARTHUR STERLING – PRIVATE.
Ethan’s late father had forbidden anyone from entering this room after his sudden death two years ago. Official reports called it a heart attack. But Claire had found a diary entry hidden in the lining of Arthur’s favorite armchair—an entry written in shaking handwriting that accused Eleanor and Ethan of something unspeakable.
With trembling fingers, Claire tested the brass handle. To her surprise, it turned with a soft click.
She slipped inside, closing the heavy door behind her. The room was shrouded in darkness, illuminated only by the pale moonlight cutting through dust-caked windows. She flicked on a small brass desk lamp, casting a warm yellow glow across the mahogany surface.
Files were strewn everywhere. Bank statements, overseas wire transfers, and medical reports. Claire’s eyes scanned the papers, her breath catching in her throat.
The wire transfers were staggering—millions funneled into offshore accounts under a corporate shell name she recognized instantly: Vance Holdings.
"Looking for a bedtime story, Claire?"
May you like
Claire spun around, dropping a stack of papers.
Standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame with a wicked smile, was Eleanor. But she wasn't alone. Behind her stood Detective Vance, holding a silver revolver casually at his side.
