CHAPTER 4: The Shattered Glass
CHAPTER 4: The Shattered Glass
The clock in the grand hallway struck 3:00 AM. The mansion was dark, illuminated only by the rhythmic, pale green glow of the security panels and the occasional flash of lightning from the storm outside.
In the eastern guest wing, Vivienne lay awake, staring at the high, painted ceiling of her bedroom. The bed was softer than anything she had ever experienced, but the sheer opulence of the room made her feel like a prisoner in a gilded cage. Every creak of the old house sounded like the approaching footsteps of the person who had hunted her mother into poverty.
A sudden, sharp scratch outside her window made her sit up, her heart leaping into her throat.
She slipped out of bed, her bare feet silent on the thick Persian rug. She crept toward the heavy velvet curtains, pulling them back just an inch. Outside, on the wide stone balcony, a figure dressed in a black rain slicker was using a glass-cutter on the pane of the adjacent French doors—the ones leading into Beatrice’s private sitting room.
Vivienne didn't scream. Her years in the rough neighborhoods of the city had taught her that survival required silence and speed. She scanned the room, grabbed a heavy brass candlestick from the nightstand, and slipped out into the dimly lit corridor.
She reached her grandmother’s door just as the glass gave way with a muffled pop.
Inside the suite, the intruder was already moving toward the small, antique writing desk where Beatrice kept her private journals and personal safe codes. Vivienne lunged through the doorway, raising the candlestick high. "Get away from her!" she shouted.
The intruder spun around with shocking speed, a silver blade flashing in the gloom. The assailant lunged at Vivienne, slicing through the air just inches from her throat. Vivienne countered, swinging the heavy brass candlestick with all her might. It struck the intruder's shoulder with a sickening thud, causing them to drop the knife with a sharp hiss of pain.
The commotion instantly triggered the pressure sensors in the hallway. The mansion's alarms began to wail—a high-pitched, deafening klaxon that flooded the estate with bright, flashing emergency lights.
The intruder, realizing their time was up, delivered a brutal kick to Vivienne’s stomach, sending her crashing into a glass display cabinet. Shelves shattered, showering her in shards of priceless porcelain. Before Vivienne could regain her breath, the figure bolted out of the broken French doors, vanishing into the torrential rain and the thick ivy of the estate grounds.
Seconds later, Julian burst into the room, a silver pistol raised, his chest heaving. He found Vivienne sitting amidst the ruins of the cabinet, bleeding from a small cut on her forearm, her face pale but her eyes fierce.
"Vivienne!" Julian yelled, dropping to his knees and checking her pulse. "Are you alright? Where did they go?"
"The balcony," she gasped, pointing toward the rain. "They weren't here for me, Julian. They were trying to get to Nana's desk. They wanted something inside her records."
Beatrice stepped into the room from her adjoining bedchamber, her face pale but her eyes sharp as flint. She looked at the shattered glass, then at Vivienne, who was shivering but still holding the brass candlestick like a weapon.
"They’re getting desperate," Beatrice said, her voice shaking with a terrifying rage. "They know the DNA results are coming tomorrow. They wanted the original estate ledger from twenty years ago—the one that lists the insurance fraud payouts from the west wing fire."
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Julian picked up the discarded knife from the floor. He used the tip of a pen to lift it by the handle, bringing it under the flashing emergency light. Engraved on the small, custom silver pommel was a tiny, stylized initial: V.
Julian’s breath hitched. "Victoria."
