Chloe was radiant under the restaurant's amber lights—radiant and dangerous.The kind of glow that made people forgive anything.
I should have seen it coming the moment she ordered the second bottle of champagne.She'd barely touched her dinner, but she'd kept her glass full. Laughing at everything Liam said. Laughing too loudly.
As we stood up to leave, Chloe swayed a little. She held herself upright by holding onto the chair.
"Oh no," she giggled, her voice lilting, "I think the bubbles are winning tonight." She pressed a hand to her cheek, feigning embarrassment. "Liam, you really shouldn't let me drink this much."
"I didn't—" he began, then stopped when she swayed against him.
I watched as he caught her by the waist, steadying her. His hand lingered. Her perfume—something floral and sweet—floated between us.That scent. The same one I'd smelled on his collar.
"I feel really... tipsy." Chloe giggled again, as she swayed lightly towards Liam, holding onto his shoulder now. "Whoops! I guess.. Could you give me a ride home?"
Liam looked slightly flustered, as he stole a glance at me.
I smiled tightly. "You can take her back, Liam. I'll get a cab."
He hesitated, guilt flickering across his features. "Elara, I can—"
"It's fine." I reached for my clutch, keeping my tone smooth. "I have something to check at the office anyway. Chloe looks like she needs a steady arm."
Chloe laughed again, leaning on him like a lazy cat. "See? Elara's always so composed. Not like me," she said dreamily, her words slurring just enough to sound believable. "I don't know how she does it."
Diana would've been proud. It was an impeccable performance.
The cab driver glanced at me through the mirror. "Miss, this isn't the address you gave."
"I know," I said quietly. "You can stop here."
He pulled up a lane short of the Sterling mansion. I stepped out into the cool night air, heels clicking on wet pavement. From where I stood, I could see the glow of the mansion's gates—and a car idling just beyond them.Liam's car.
Ten minutes passed.No one got out.
The car didn't move.
My pulse thudded in my ears. I walked closer, keeping to the shadows of the hedges. The windshield was fogged, the interior lit faintly by the streetlamp.
Through the misted glass, I saw them.
Chloe was in the passenger seat, angled toward him, her face tipped up. Her smile—soft, slow, deliberate—was nothing like her drunken giggles at dinner.She whispered something, her hand brushing his collar. He caught her wrist—half protest, half surrender—and she leaned in. The kiss was hesitant at first. Then hungrier. His fingers slid up to her jaw, drawing her closer. Her hand fisted in his shirt. The kind of kiss that erases reason and leaves only want.
My breath caught. For a moment I couldn't move. I knew what was going on even without looking into the glass but somehow the sight pierced deeper than I expected—because once, that tenderness had been mine. That look in his eyes, the quiet ache of wanting, the softness of his lips, the way he'd held me like that in another lifetime.
And still, even now—knowing what he was, what they'd done—the hurt found me. It burned in my chest, sharp and humiliating. I hated that it still had the power to wound.
The glass fogged again. I turned away, walking into the mansion through the back.
As I entered the mansion, my phone vibrated in my hand, breaking the silence. Unknown number.
I hesitated, then answered. "Elara Sterling."
A pause. Then a man's voice—low, deliberate, unfamiliar."Miss Sterling. Michael Crestwood speaking."
The name snapped through me like a spark.
"Michael Crestwood?"
"Yes. Of Crestwood Printers."
I straightened instinctively, still gripping the phone as though it might bite, my heart thumping in my chest."Crestwood Printers?" I repeated, pretending to not know anything about it, or Diana's involvement. "That company closed down years ago."
"Yes," he said quietly. "My father started it. I was running it when it was… shut down."
Shut down.That was a polite way to put it.
I moved deeper into the empty hall, my heels silent now against the marble. "Mr. Crestwood, why are you calling me?"
He took a moment to answer. When he spoke, his voice was steady, but I could hear the strain beneath."There is something I want you to know. About your stepmother."
"Diana?"
"Yes. Diana Mey- Sterling." He said her name like it tasted bitter. "Your father's wife arranged for Crestwood Printers to be acquired—on paper, it was a merger. In practice, she gutted us. Within three months, our assets were transferred to a shell company. She even took our client lists. When I tried to sue, the firm representing us suddenly withdrew. The auditors went silent. My accounts were frozen. Everything—buried."
I sank into the nearest armchair, the velvet cool beneath my palms.That explained too much. And it sounded all too familiar. A takeover disguised as a merger. What caught my interest was the second part of his narrative. It seems Diana had influence. Or at least some sort of help.
"What do you want from me, Mr. Crestwood?"
He gave a humorless laugh. "What do I want? Justice, Miss Sterling. Or something close to it."A pause. Then, softly, "But you of all people should understand that in your family, justice isn't free."
My breath stilled. "Why me?"
"Because," he said, voice low, "I can't do it alone, and I think you already know something's wrong in that house. I think you've seen the rot."
The line went quiet for a moment. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed. Probably Liam. Probably her.I closed my eyes. "What are you asking?"
"I have documents. Internal transfers, ownership records—Diana's name isn't on any of them, but the trail leads back to a trust. A trust I think she is associated with. I need someone inside to help me trace it. To bring it out."
"What makes you think I will help you?"
His voice softened, coaxing. "Well you don't really have a choice do you? If you don't do this, the Sterling Group will be the next Crestwood Printers."
I smiled, "I got her off the Head of PR didn't I? Without your help."
He chuckled lightly, "Are you sure you got her off without my help? The article helped, didn't it?"
I paused. "You know."
"Did you think I just fell off the turnip truck? But the way you did it. It wouldn't even cause much of a ripple. I knew then that you don't know her well. Not well enough to achieve anything. But I do. And I trust that is a good enough reason for you to help me, Miss Sterling."
A reason.For the Sterling Group? For revenge? For truth? For myself?Maybe all of it.
"Send me what you have," I said finally. "And don't call this number again."
"I wasn't planning to," he murmured. "Check your email within the hour. The file's named White Snakeroot."Then the line went dead.
I stared at the phone long after the call ended, my heart still drumming. White Snakeroot. Poisonous. Fitting.
In the reflection on the black screen, my own eyes looked back at me—tired, hollow, and something else.Resolved.
Upstairs, a door closed softly.Chloe was on the phone. Her laughter—light, carefree, poisonous.
I looked toward the sound, my jaw tightening.Maybe Crestwood was right. Maybe it was time to stop pretending that this house wasn't built on secrets.
Diana thought she could bury her sins forever. Now I have a shovel.