Chapter 2 - Seven Years of Silence
“Victoria Hale.”
Ethan said the name so quietly that for a second I wondered if I'd imagined it.
Victoria didn't move.
Richard did.
He crossed the space between them and took the photocopy from my hand.
His eyes went directly to the signature.
“Victoria.”
She stared at him.
“This proves nothing.”
Ethan turned.
“You signed for Emma's letter?”
“I don't remember.”
“It has your name.”
“Seven years ago, I was constantly at the Blackwood offices. My father was on the board. I signed for packages all the time.”
“Addressed to me?”
Her hesitation lasted perhaps half a second.
It was enough.
Ethan saw it.
“I wouldn't have opened your mail.”
“I didn't ask whether you opened it.”
Victoria's expression hardened.
“No. You asked whether I remembered signing for one envelope seven years ago. I don't.”
I watched Ethan.
His anger had changed direction, but not completely.
That mattered.
I didn't want a convenient villain.
I wanted the truth.
Richard folded the receipt.
“Where is the original?”
“In storage,” I said. “My attorney obtained the postal records.”
Ethan looked at me.
“You have an attorney?”
“I needed one.”
“For what?”
I glanced toward Noah.
He was playing with the locomotive at the edge of the private room, too young to understand the exact words but old enough to understand tension.
“Not here.”
Ethan followed my gaze.
Something softened in him.
“Dad, take Noah.”
Richard looked at me for permission.
I nodded.
Noah protested until Richard promised him a second train.
Then they disappeared into the private dining room.
Victoria remained.
I wished she hadn't.
Ethan sat opposite me.
“Start at the beginning.”
So I did.
Seven years earlier, Ethan had left New York for a three-week business trip to London.
Three days after his departure, I had received a call from a woman claiming to represent the Blackwood family's legal office.
She knew everything.
My address.
My job.
My relationship with Ethan.
Even details about private conversations I'd had with him.
She told me Ethan's family knew about us and wanted the relationship ended quietly.
I had laughed.
At first.
Then she mentioned my mother's debt.
My mother's apartment.
My employment contract.
She told me that if I cared about Ethan, I would stop damaging his future.
Two days later, I was fired.
The following morning, my landlord informed me my lease was being terminated through a clause I had never noticed.
Then came the agreement.
“And you signed it,” Ethan said.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because my mother had just gone into the hospital.”
His face changed.
“You never told me.”
“I tried.”
“How much money?”
“None.”
Ethan frowned.
“The bank transfer.”
“I never received it.”
He leaned back.
“Emma, I saw the record.”
“So did I.”
“An account in your name received two hundred thousand dollars.”
“An account using my name.”
Silence.
Ethan looked at Victoria.
She shook her head.
“Don't look at me. I knew nothing about any of this.”
I continued.
“The agreement said I would end all contact with you. I signed because the lawyer told me your family would cover my mother's hospital balance if I did.”
Ethan stared.
“You traded us for a hospital bill?”
The words hurt.
But I understood why he asked.
“No.”
“Then what do you call it?”
“I call it being twenty-five, terrified, and told the man I loved already knew.”
His expression shifted.
“What?”
“They told me you approved it.”
“I would never—”
“I know that now.”
He stood abruptly.
“Who?”
“I never met the person behind it.”
“The lawyer.”
“Martin Vale.”
Richard had returned quietly enough that none of us noticed.
He stopped in the doorway.
“What did you say?”
I looked at him.
“Martin Vale.”
Richard's face went gray.
Ethan noticed.
“You know him.”
Richard slowly entered.
“He worked for Blackwood Holdings.”
Victoria whispered, “Worked?”
Richard looked at her.
“He disappeared six years ago.”
That sentence changed the room.
Ethan's phone suddenly vibrated on the table.
He looked down.
Unknown number.
A message.
He opened it.
His eyes narrowed.
“What is it?” I asked.
He turned the screen toward us.
There was a photograph.
It showed twenty-three envelopes arranged across a dark wooden desk.
Every envelope carried my handwriting.
Every envelope was addressed to Ethan.
And beneath the photograph was one sentence.
ASK RICHARD WHAT HE DID WITH LETTER NUMBER TWELVE.
Ethan slowly looked at his father.
Richard didn't deny recognizing it.
He simply sat down.
May you like
And whispered:
“I was hoping that one was gone.”
