Chapter 20 - The Open Door
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The wedding was small, private, and heavily guarded.
I stood in the estate's sprawling gardens, wearing a simple, elegant white gown, holding a bouquet of white roses. Finn, wearing a tiny, perfectly tailored tuxedo, proudly carried the rings down the makeshift aisle, his face beaming with absolute joy.
As I looked at Victor waiting for me at the altar, I felt a profound sense of completeness. The terrified girl who had hid from her past was gone, replaced by a queen who had claimed her throne.
We exchanged our vows beneath the setting sun, promising to protect our family against whatever darkness the future held.
The reception was joyful, filled with music and the rare sound of laughter echoing through the fortified walls of the estate. For the first time in his life, Finn danced with his father, completely unafraid.
Late that night, after the guests had departed and Finn was fast asleep, Victor and I retreated to the quiet sanctity of his study.
We sat on the leather sofa, sharing a glass of expensive champagne, basking in the glow of our new beginning.
"We did it," I murmured, resting my head on his broad shoulder. "We actually found peace."
"We built it," Victor corrected softly, kissing the top of my head. "And I will spend the rest of my life maintaining it."
A soft, hesitant knock echoed on the heavy oak doors.
Victor frowned, his relaxed posture instantly stiffening. He set his champagne glass down. "Enter."
Dante, the new head of security, stepped into the room. He didn't look happy. In fact, he looked incredibly pale, clutching a small, unadorned manila envelope in his gloved hands.
"Boss," Dante said grimly, avoiding my eyes. "This was intercepted at the outer gate ten minutes ago. A courier dropped it and ran. It bypassed the initial scanners, but it’s addressed to Harper."
My blood ran cold.
Victor stood up, crossing the room to take the envelope. He opened it carefully, pulling out a single, aged photograph and a handwritten note.
Victor stared at the photo, his jaw tightening into a hard, unforgiving line. He slowly turned the photograph around so I could see it.
It was a picture of my parents, taken years before they died. But they weren't alone. Standing behind them, his hand resting familiarly on my father's shoulder, was Victor Rossi.
I gasped, snatching the note from Victor's hand. Written in elegant, blood-red ink was a single sentence:
May you like
Did he tell you who drove the car, Harper? See you soon.
The illusion of peace shattered instantly, leaving us standing in the cold, terrifying reality that the past was never truly buried.
