Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the East Wing
"Security breach in the east wing!" Marcus’s voice crackled through Victor's lapel radio over a wave of heavy static. "Power lines on the north fence have been cut!"
Victor moved with blinding speed. He drew a heavy tactical sidearm from his desk drawer, racking the slide with a crisp, lethal click. He looked at Marcus, who stepped into the study with his weapon drawn.
"Take Clara and Ellie to the panic room in the east wing," Victor ordered. "Keep them behind the titanium blast doors."
"Victor, no!" Clara cried out, standing up from the sofa and pulling Ellie behind her. "Don't leave us!"
Victor walked over to Clara, his tall, broad frame towering over her. He reached out his broad hand, his thumb gently wiping a tear from her fair, rosy cheek. His dark eyes met hers with an unyielding, protective intensity.
"Nobody touches you or my daughter again, Clara," Victor said, his deep voice vibrating with absolute promise. "I give you my word."
He motioned to Marcus, who escorted Clara and Ellie quickly down the carpeted corridor toward the secure wing.
Victor turned his gaze back to Celeste, who was sitting motionless in her chair, a sinister, subtle smile touching her lips.
"You think you can protect her, Victor?" Celeste purred softly, her voice laced with venom. "You built this empire on my family's political connections. If I fall, the federal task force releases the wiretap files on your shipping terminals before sunrise."
Victor walked slowly toward her, stopping inches from her face. "You made one fatal mistake eight years ago, Celeste."
"And what was that?" she sneered.
"You left her alive," Victor whispered softly.
Victor signaled two armed guards. "Lock her in the basement holding cell. Strip her of all communication devices."
As the guards dragged Celeste down the stairs, Victor walked toward the east wing. The ambient lights in the hallway flickered and died as the secondary backup generators kicked on, bathing the long corridor in a blood-red emergency glow.
Near the end of the east wing, Victor found the heavy oak door of the old nursery standing slightly ajar.
He pushed the door open with his gun raised.
Inside, the room was dimly lit by the storm outside. Sitting on the floor near an antique wooden toy chest was Ellie. She had slipped away from the panic room corridor and wandered back to her bedroom. In her tiny hands, she held an old, velvet-lined music box that had belonged to Victor's late "wife", Evelyn, who had supposedly died eight years ago.
Clara stood in the doorway behind Ellie, her breath catching in her throat as she stared at the music box.
"Ellie, sweetie..." Clara whispered, stepping into the room.
Ellie looked up, holding out the open music box. "Mommy... look inside."
Victor walked over, lowering his weapon. He reached down, pulling out a small, folded piece of yellowed paper tucked beneath the velvet lining of the music box.
He unfolded the paper. Written in delicate, slanted handwriting was a handwritten letter:
To whoever finds my daughter—Celeste took her the moment she was born. My real name is Clara. If I do not survive the clinic, protect my baby.
May you like
Victor stared at the handwriting, his chest heaving. The handwriting in the music box matched a note he had found eight years ago beside his "deceased" wife's bed.
Evelyn had never existed. The woman Victor believed was his wife was Clara all along—a woman whose memory had been systematically stolen by Celeste to control the Moretti dynasty!
