Chapter 6 - THE CONFESSION IN THE ARCHIVES
Chaos exploded across the ballroom.
Guests scrambled backward, knocking over chairs, whispering frantically, and pulling out their phones to record the surreal spectacle. Eleanor Rootes clutched her chest, her face pale as paper, staring at Catherine as if she were seeing a revenant crawled straight out of hell.
Before Marcus Vance and his security detail could swarm the stage, Arthur Pendelton stepped out from the side archway, holding a heavy leather briefcase high in the air.
“Don't move!” Arthur shouted, his voice surprisingly firm for an old gardener. “I have the original land deeds, the forged death certificates, and the offshore bank routing numbers signed by Victor Rootes himself! One step closer and these go straight to the state police parked at the front gates!”
Marcus stopped midway across the room, his hand hovering near his jacket pocket where a concealed firearm rested. He looked at Victor for a signal.
Victor didn't give one. The billionaire stood paralyzed at the head table, all the color drained from his face, looking like a man who had just received his own death warrant.
“Bring her to the study,” Victor finally whispered, his voice cracking. He turned his back on the horrified crowd of politicians and elites, walking with heavy, defeated steps toward the private office doors at the back of the ballroom.
Catherine didn't flinch. She walked steadily behind him, her chin held high, flanked by Arthur.
Inside the private study, the heavy mahogany doors clicked shut, locking out the noise of the panicked guests outside.
Marcus Vance stepped in behind them, locking the door and sliding his hand inside his jacket.
“Put the gun away, Marcus,” Catherine said coldly, sitting down uninvited in Victor’s leather executive chair. “We passed the point of murder twenty-five years ago. Let’s not add amateur hour to your resume now.”
Victor sank heavily into the armchair opposite her, burying his face in his hands for a long moment before looking up. His eyes were bloodshot, old age suddenly catching up to him all at once.
“How did you survive?” Victor asked hoarsely. “The air intake... the concrete vault... it was sealed airtight.”
“My father designed that vault during the Cold War,” Catherine replied evenly. “He built a secondary emergency oxygen vent leading into the root cellar behind the greenhouses. I didn't breathe fresh air for a quarter-century, Victor... but I breathed enough to stay alive. To watch you build your fortune on my grave.”
Victor looked at Marcus, then back to Catherine. “What do you want? Money? Half the estate? We can divide the accounts offshore by morning.”
“I don’t want your money, Victor,” Catherine leaned forward, resting her elbows on the mahogany desk, her eyes locking onto his with terrifying clarity. “I want my son back.”
Victor flinched as if struck by lightning.
Marcus Vance stiffened, his expression shifting from cold arrogance to sudden, deep unease.
“Your son died in the car crash with you,” Victor said quickly, though his voice wavered. “The hospital records—”
“There were no hospital records,” a cold, smooth female voice interrupted from the doorway of the private archive room.
Everyone turned.
Eleanor Rootes stood in the doorway, her emerald dress rustling softly, her face completely drained of emotion. In her hands, she held a thick, yellowed manila envelope tied with faded red ribbon.
“Eleanor, get out of here,” Victor snapped, panic flaring in his eyes.
“No, Victor,” Eleanor said softly, walking over to the desk and laying the envelope down right in front of Catherine. “I’ve played your loyal second wife for ten years, believing your lies about Catherine’s tragic accident. But when I saw her walk into that ballroom tonight... I realized I wasn't your wife. I was just another prisoner in this gilded cage.”
Catherine untied the red ribbon with trembling fingers and pulled out a single adoption certificate dated twenty-four years ago.
She read the names on the document, and her breath hitched.
The child hadn't died.
Victor hadn't just stolen her estate; he had given their infant son away to a wealthy corporate ally in Europe to sever the bloodline completely.
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And the person who helped arrange the adoption papers—acting as the legal proxy for the Rootes estate—was standing right beside Victor.
Marcus Vance.
