Chapter 17 - The Strategy of the Disowned and the Pact of the Fallen
I retreated to the villa,
locking the doors and ordering the security team to surround the perimeter with orders to shoot on sight.
I sat in the nursery,
watching the rhythmic rise and fall of the triplets’ chests,
feeling a protective instinct that was almost primal.
Arthur,
Elias,
and Diana.
They were the only truth I had left.
Elias tried to knock on the door,
his voice muffled by the thick oak.
"Clara,
let me explain.
He had debt,
he was being hunted by the mob,
he had to disappear—"
"Go away,
Elias,"
I said,
my voice devoid of emotion.
"If you’re still on this property in ten minutes,
I’ll call the police and report you for the murder of Thomas Whitmore."
"You can't prove that!"
he shouted.
"I don't need to prove it to ruin you,"
I replied.
"I’ve learned how to destroy lives without a single piece of evidence."
He finally left,
the sound of his footsteps retreating down the hall like the fading echoes of my past.
I picked up my phone and dialed a number I never thought I would call again.
"Raymond?"
The voice on the other end was raspy,
broken,
and filled with shock.
"Clara?
Is everything okay?
Are the babies—"
"The babies are fine,"
I interrupted.
"But I need you to do something for me."
"Anything,"
he whispered.
"I want you to meet me at the old boathouse in Greenwich tomorrow at noon."
"And bring the files your mother kept on my father."
"Clara,
those files are gone,
the police took everything—"
"Not the ones in the safe under the floorboards in the wine cellar,"
I said.
"I know you found them when you were looking for booze last week."
There was a long silence on the line.
"How did you know I was in the cellar?"
"I own the house,
Raymond.
I own the cameras.
I own the air you breathe."
"Be there.
At noon.
And don't tell a soul."
I hung up,
realizing that to defeat a father who had faked his death,
I needed the help of the husband who had tried to kill my spirit.
It was a pact with the devil,
but I was already living in hell.
The next morning,
I left the children with my most trusted nurse and a team of guards that had no connection to Elias or Arthur.
I drove to Greenwich,
the familiar gates of the estate feeling like the entrance to a graveyard.
Raymond was waiting in the boathouse,
looking like a shadow of a man,
his clothes hanging off his thin frame.
He handed me a dusty leather folder,
his hands shaking.
"Why are we doing this,
Clara?"
he asked,
tears welling in his eyes.
"Because your mother wasn't the only one who wanted me out of the way,"
I said,
opening the folder.
Inside were photos—not of my father’s accident,
but of his meetings with Margaret Whitmore months before he disappeared.
They hadn't been enemies.
They had been partners.
My father hadn't been "hunted" by the Whitmores;
he had sold me to them.
He had traded his daughter for a new life,
a new identity,
and a clean slate in the Caribbean.
The 'accident' was the final payment.
I felt a laugh bubble up in my throat,
a jagged,
hysterical sound that filled the small boathouse.
"He sold me,"
I whispered,
the irony of it all finally sinking in.
"The man I loved more than anyone in the world sold me to a family of snakes for a yacht and a tan."
Raymond reached out to touch my arm,
but I flinched away.
"I’m sorry,
Clara,"
he said,
and for the first time in eleven years,
I actually believed him.
"Don't be sorry,
Raymond,"
I said,
tucking the folder under my arm.
May you like
"Be ready.
Because we’re going to burn his 'Second Chance' to the waterline."
