Chapter 3 - Shadows from the PastThe name struck me like a physical blow.
Sterling.
Genevieve’s maiden name. The family I had supposedly severed all ties with the day we married, the aristocratic Seattle lineage that had collapsed into total ruin the moment my father called in their corporate debts. I had buried my wife believing she died of a sudden postpartum hemorrhage two years ago, her heart simply giving out under the strain of our gilded cage.
"Genevieve... she didn't have a sister," I choked out, my fingers tightening around the edge of the bassinet. "She was an only child. Her father—"
"My father lied to you about a great many things," Elena interrupted, her hands moving with lightning speed as she inserted an ultrafine intravenous catheter into Blythe’s translucent vein. The amber liquid from her vial began to drip, drop by slow drop, into the tubing. "Just like your father lied to mine. Just like you lied to Genevieve when you promised to protect her from the vultures circling your empire."
She didn't wait for my defense. She moved immediately to Jonah’s bed, repeating the meticulous, practiced ritual with a calm precision that terrified me more than any weapon could.
"She's dead," I said, the words tasting like jagged glass in my mouth. "I stood by her casket. I watched them lower her into the frozen earth at Graceland."
Elena paused, a silver needle poised between her fingers. She didn't look at me; her eyes remained fixed on Jonah’s fluttering eyelids.
"Did you open the casket, Lawson?" she asked softly.
The silence in the room became absolute, heavy enough to crush bone.
"Did you look inside, or were you too busy playing the stoic, untouchable patriarch, making sure the press cameras captured your profile from the right angle?"
I couldn't answer.
Two years ago, when Genevieve’s heart had allegedly stopped in the middle of the night, the hospital had delivered a sealed casket. My father’s security team had handled the arrangements. I had been told the trauma of her passing was too severe for public viewing. I had accepted it because grief was a weakness I couldn't afford to display, and the Mercer name demanded impenetrable armor.
"She isn't dead," Elena said, her voice dropping into a register that sent a shiver straight down my spine. "And if you want to know why your children are dying right now in this room, you need to understand that what happened to Genevieve two years ago wasn't an accident. It was an execution. And the people who ordered it are sitting on your board of directors."
Before I could demand an explanation, the heavy oak door burst open.
Prescott stood in the doorway, his face slick with sweat, his hand drawing his firearm from its holster.
"Boss," Prescott panted, his eyes darting frantically between me and Elena. "We've got movement on the north perimeter. Crosby Vane didn't send scouts. He just breached the outer fence with three armored SUVs. And they're not here to negotiate."
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Elena didn't even flinch. She depressed the final plunger on Jonah’s IV line, wiped her hands on a sterile cloth, and turned to face me with a chilling, predatory calm.
"Well, Mr. Mercer," she said, picking up her leather pouch. "It looks like your welcoming committee has arrived. Shall we go greet them, or do you want to die hiding behind your glass walls?"
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