Chapter 2 - The Ghost of Christian Vance
The courtyard of St. Jude's Cathedral became an absolute vacuum of sound.
The name hung in the crisp autumn air like a dropped guillotine blade: *Christian.*
Julian froze. His arm, which had been wrapped protective and warm around my waist, suddenly turned rigid as marble. I felt the instantaneous change in his physiology—the sudden spike in his pulse, the way his breath caught in his throat, the sharp drop in his body temperature.
Christian Vance was the eldest brother. The golden boy of the Vance empire. The one destined to inherit the multi-billion-dollar maritime shipping conglomerate before his silver Porsche had plummeted off the cliffs of Montauk four years ago. The crash had been so violent the vehicle had incinerated on the rocks below, leaving behind only charred metal and dental records. Christian’s death had broken the Vance family in ways that wealth could never mend. It was the trauma that had pulled Julian back from his architectural firm in London to take the reins of an empire he had never wanted.
Julian had never spoken of Christian without a tremor in his voice. And now, his sister had just accused his bride of being in the car.
"Victoria, you are out of your goddamn mind," Julian whispered, though the certainty in his voice had fractured down the middle. "Clara didn't even live in New York four years ago. She was in Chicago."
"She lied to you!" Victoria screamed, thrashing wildly in the grip of the security guards. Her chignon had completely undone itself, dark copper strands whipping across her flushed face. "She's an architect, right? That’s what she told you? Ask her about the shell company! Ask her why Christian’s personal bank accounts transferred two million dollars to a woman named Clara Mercer three days before he burned alive!"
"Stop it!" I cried out, my hands trembling as I tried to pull Julian’s face back to mine. "Julian, look at me! I don't know what she's talking about! I didn't know Christian! I swear to God on my life, I never met your brother!"
Julian looked down at me, but his eyes were no longer clear. A shadow had fallen behind his pupils—that ancient, poisonous Vance family paranoia that came with being raised behind high iron gates and ironclad prenuptial agreements. He wanted to believe me; the love in his heart was screaming to protect me, but the wound left by his brother’s death was an open, infected sore.
"Take her to the town car," a cold, aristocratic voice sliced through the tension.
Eleanor Vance, the family matriarch, stepped down the stairs with glacial elegance. Dressed in silver-gray silk that matched her icy hair, she did not look at me. She did not ask if I had broken any bones from the fifteen-foot drop. Her gaze was locked entirely on Victoria.
"Mother, tell him!" Victoria sobbed, suddenly changing from predator to victim as Eleanor approached. "I found the safety deposit box yesterday! I found the papers! She hunted Julian down! She came for the rest of the money!"
"Silence, Victoria," Eleanor commanded in a tone that could have halted an advancing army. "You have paraded our family’s tragedy before the gutter press. You have humiliated the Vance name on the steps of God’s house. Security, remove my daughter. Sedate her if necessary. Dr. Marcus is waiting at the penthouse."
"You can't hide it, Mother!" Victoria was dragged toward a waiting black Maybach, her heels scraping against the asphalt. "Look at her hands, Julian! Look at the burn scar on her left shoulder! Ask her where she got it!"
My breath seized in my throat. My left hand moved unconsciously, clutching the lace fabric covering the top of my shoulder.
Julian saw the gesture. His eyes dropped to my shoulder, and a chilling silence settled between us. He had asked me about that scar once, during our second month of dating, while tracing the jagged, puckered skin on my shoulder blade. I had told him it was an old childhood accident—boiling water from a kitchen kettle. He had kissed it then, whispering that I was beautiful regardless.
Now, he looked at that shoulder as if it belonged to a stranger.
"Julian," I whispered, tears blurring the outlines of his face. "Please. Help me up."
He paused for a devastating second before sliding his hands under my arms and lifting me to my feet. The pain in my ankle flared—I had sprained it during the fall—and I leaned heavily against him. He supported my weight, but his embrace was mechanical, devoid of the passion with which he had held me at the altar only ten minutes earlier.
Dozens of flashbulbs went off as the crowd pressed against the velvet ropes.
"Mr. Vance! Is it true? Was your wife involved in Christian Vance's fatal accident?"
"Clara, are you Clara Mercer?"
"Did you orchestrate the marriage for the trust fund?"
"Get back!" Julian snarled, his arm shielding me as he forced our way toward our limousine. He shoved a cameraman aside with terrifying force, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched violently under his skin.
He bundled me into the leather backseat of the Rolls-Royce Phantom. Eleanor Vance slid in across from us, the door slamming shut, instantly muffling the roar of the ravenous media outside.
The interior of the car was suffocating. The scent of white lilies and Eleanor’s vintage Chanel No. 5 hung thick in the air.
Julian sat beside me, his hands resting on his knees, staring straight ahead at the partition glass. His knuckles were bruised and bleeding from where he had caught me against the stone.
"Julian," I reached out, my fingers trembling as I touched his sleeve. "Look at me. Please. You have to believe me."
Julian slowly turned his head. His eyes, usually warm and honey-brown, were cold, clouded with suspicion and the terrifying ghost of his brother.
"We aren't going to the reception," Eleanor said softly from the opposite seat, her voice devoid of any warmth. "Driver. Take us to the manor in Bedford. The gates will be locked. No press. No calls."
Eleanor then turned her piercing blue eyes onto me, her gaze sweeping from my torn, dirt-streaked gown to the wedding ring on my finger.
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"Before this night is over, Clara," the matriarch said with lethal calm, "we are going to take off that dress. We are going to look at that scar. And you are going to tell us the truth, or you will leave this family in handcuffs."
***
