Chapter 3 - Shadows on the Terrace
The shadow outside the French doors did not move. He stood like a dark pillar against the backdrop of the manicured lawn, the amber glow of the terrace lanterns outlining broad shoulders and a sharp, military profile.
Julian pushed his chair back with a scrape of wood against wood that made Emma flinch. "Vance, take Emma and Maria to the conservatory. Lock the interior doors."
"Daddy, no," Emma whispered, reaching out to tug the sleeve of his jacket. "The man outside... he came with Mommy yesterday. He told her she didn't have much time."
Victoria stood up so violently that her chair nearly tipped over. "Emma, that is enough! Go to your room immediately!"
"Sit down, Victoria," Julian commanded. His voice wasn't loud, but the terrifying steel beneath it rooted her to the floor. He glanced down at his daughter, his expression softening for a fraction of a second as he gently squeezed her shoulder. "Go with Maria, sweetheart. Everything is fine."
Maria stood up immediately, her trembling hands reaching out to guide Emma out of her seat. She didn't look at Victoria; the terror of the past week seemed to dissolve into an urgent instinct to protect the child. Taking Emma’s hand, Maria quickly led the girl past Vance and out the side corridor toward the secure wing.
Once the heavy interior doors clicked shut, Julian turned back to the terrace doors. He reached inside his jacket, fingers brushing the small, concealed holster he kept discreetly out of Emma’s view, before walking deliberately toward the glass.
"Julian, wait," Victoria said, a sudden tremor breaking through her aristocratic mask. "Don't open that door. You don't know who he works for."
"I know he didn't sneak past the security perimeter without an invitation," Julian said, his hand closing over the brass latch. With a sharp twist, he pulled the heavy door open, letting the cold autumn night air rush into the heated room.
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The man outside took two steps into the light. He wore an immaculate charcoal overcoat, his silver hair neatly cropped, his face weathered by years of cold authority. Julian stared at him, the color draining from his face for the very first time.
"It’s been twelve years, Julian," the man said, his voice deep and gravelly. "I believe your wife owes my associates twenty million dollars. And you owe me an explanation about where my daughter is buried."
