Chapter 4 - The Hollow Echo of the Vance Manor
Fifty miles away, in the manicured silence of the Vance manor, the atmosphere had the bitter, stale taste of an uncorked bottle of vinegar.
Julian sat at the mahogany dining table, staring at the empty seat opposite him. For three years, his mother had insisted on maintaining the formal silver service for twelve, even though no one came to dinner anymore. The local elites were polite at charity galas, but behind Julian’s back, the whispers were venomous. A man who lets his pregnant wife walk into the freezing rain over an engagement ring is not a patrician; he is a coward, and cowardice is a foul scent that high society tolerates only until the inheritance begins to dwindle.
"Eat your consommé, Julian," Eleanor snapped from the head of the table. Her lace cuffs were pristine, but her fingers shook slightly as she lifted her spoon. Her face was pulled tight with expensive surgical procedures, yet her mouth remained permanently turned down, fixed in a sour sneer that time could no longer smooth away.
"I’m not hungry, Mother," Julian said, his voice flat.
"You are sulking over a peasant girl who humiliated this family," Eleanor hissed, her knuckles turning pale against her napkin. "She made a scene! She slapped our benevolence in the face and walked away like a thief in the night!"
"She took nothing," Julian reminded her, his eyes drifting toward the curio cabinet where the diamond ring sat under glass—a morbid museum exhibit of their own hollow pride. "Not a penny. Not the car. Not even the winter coat I bought her. You told her she wasn't good enough for our bloodline, and she left the baby because she wanted our bloodline to have nothing to do with him."
"Good riddance!" Eleanor spat. "He would have had her common features. He would have dragged our name through the dirt."
"There is no dirt on our name, Mother," Julian murmured, staring at his reflection in the polished wood. "Only dust. We are sitting in an empty house, dining with ghosts, and the company shares dipped another six percent this quarter."
May you like
He stood up, leaving his dinner untouched, and walked into the grand library. He looked at the family portraits lining the wall—men in cavalry uniforms, women draped in diamonds. None of them looked happy. None of them looked alive. Julian took out his phone and stared at the private investigator’s single, unread report he had kept locked in his desk for twelve months: Subject lives in Oak Creek. Operates an unregistered agricultural cottage business. Refuses state assistance.
He had the address. He had the car keys. But as he looked down at his soft, manicured hands, he knew he did not have the courage to stand before her.
