Chapter 8 - The Seven O'Clock SilenceAt precisely 6:55 PM, Arthur’s Maybach pulled through the grand iron gates of the estate. The security guards waved him through with a crisp salute, completely oblivious to the fact that their primary monitor screens inside the security lodge had been frozen on a looping loop of footage recorded three hours earlier.
Arthur stepped out of the vehicle into the crisp evening air, adjusting his tie as he walked up the front steps. The mansion looked breathtaking against the twilight sky, its warm interior lights glowing through the oversized bay windows.
"Chloe?" Arthur called out cheerfully as he stepped into the foyer, dropping his briefcase by the door. "Smells incredible in here! Did the chef make that truffle risotto you wanted?"
There was no immediate answer.
Instead, a profound, heavy silence hung over the grand entrance hall—the exact same eerie silence that had greeted him weeks ago when he first discovered his daughter scrubbing the floors.
Arthur frowned, a sudden, cold prickle of unease washing over the back of his neck. He walked toward the rear drawing room leading out to the courtyard garden.
The glass double doors leading to the patio were slid open. Outside, under the glowing fairy lights strung through the oak trees, a long mahogany dining table was set beautifully with fine crystal, silver cutlery, and steaming plates of gourmet food.
At the head of the table sat Chloe.
She wasn't moving. She sat perfectly upright in her chair, her back facing the doorway, staring straight ahead toward the stone perimeter wall.
"Chloe, sweetheart?" Arthur called out, walking slowly across the patio stone toward the table. "Are you alright?"
As he got closer, a sickening wave of dread hit him with the force of a freight train.
Tied securely to her chair with industrial steel cables was Chloe. A thick strip of black electrical tape was taped tightly across her mouth, and her eyes—wide, terrified, and swimming with tears—were locked on something standing just behind the stone garden wall.
Arthur stopped dead in his tracks. "What the—"
"Don't move, Arthur," a smooth, gravelly voice echoed from the shadows of the towering oak trees.
Arthur whipped his head around. Step by slow step, a tall, imposing figure emerged from the darkness of the garden. He wore an expensive dark overcoat, his silver-streaked hair catching the ambient light of the patio lamps.
Arthur’s jaw dropped. The color drained entirely from his face, leaving him looking like a ghost.
"No..." Arthur whispered, taking an involuntary step backward. "That's impossible... You died in prison ten years ago."
The man smiled—a cold, terrifyingly familiar grin that mirrored the exact facial structure of Julian Vance.
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It wasn't Julian’s father who had died in prison. It was a cover story.
It was Victor Vance himself.
