Chapter 11 - THE SEED OF DOUBTThe spring air in Long Island was crisp, carrying the salty tang of the Atlantic and the sweet scent of blooming azaleas. Six months had passed since the night Vivienne and Julian were dragged away in handcuffs, their high-society empire crumbling into dust. Greystone Manor no longer felt like a cold, echoing mausoleum of secrets. With Rosie’s bright laughter echoing down the oak-paneled hallways, the house had finally begun to breathe.
Yet, peace in a world built on power is always fragile.
It started on a Tuesday morning. I was sitting in my private study on the second floor, reviewing the quarterly asset reallocation for the newly restructured Vance Global. Marco knocked twice before pushing the heavy mahogany door open, his expression tighter than usual.
“We have a visitor at the gate, Mr. Vance,” Marco said, stepping inside and laying a sealed manila envelope on my desk.
“A visitor? The press corps was cleared out months ago,” I replied, not looking up from my monitor. “Who is it?”
“Not the press. A courier. He wouldn't state his name, but he insisted this envelope be delivered directly into your hands.” Marco tapped the thick brown paper with a calloused finger. “The security scanners picked up a lead-foil lining inside the folder. It was designed to block electronic signal traces.”
That caught my attention. I slowly pushed my rolling chair back, interlocked my fingers, and stared at the envelope. Lead-lining meant someone was hiding something big, or trying to pass a message that could bypass every digital perimeter we had installed.
“Open it,” I ordered.
Marco sliced the top open with a tactical knife and tipped the contents onto my blotter. A single sheet of heavy, cream-colored parchment slid out, accompanied by an old, tarnished brass skeleton key.
I picked up the parchment. Written in sharp, angular cursive—a hand I hadn't seen in years—were just two sentences:
May you like
“You thought cutting out the rot would save the tree, Damian. The ring was never Vivienne’s trophy; it was a receipt. Look closer at the foundation of Greystone, and ask yourself why Sofia really chose to work for your father.”
A cold shiver raced down my spine. The note wasn't signed, but the watermark on the paper belonged to the Sterling family estate—a property that had allegedly been entirely liquidated during Vivienne’s trial.
