Chapter 2 - The False Letter
Maris turned pale.
Victor looked at him.
“What letter?”
Brian swallowed.
“The one Mrs. Williams gave you three years ago.”
The room went completely silent.
Victor remembered the letter.
Of course he did.
He had read it at his desk in London while rain moved down the hotel windows and his mother stood on speakerphone saying, “I’m sorry, darling. Catherine has made her choice.”
The letter had been typed.
Signed at the bottom.
Catherine Williams.
Victor,
Do not come looking for us. I am taking Annie away because this family is destroying me, and you care more about your empire than your wife or child.
If you want to send money, send it through your mother. I do not want contact. Annie will be better without the confusion of seeing you.
Do not punish her by making this public.
Catherine
Victor had read it until the words blurred.
He called Catherine’s phone.
Disconnected.
Her email bounced.
Her old apartment emptied.
His mother’s attorney told him Catherine had requested indirect contact only.
A private investigator found nothing useful and then was quietly discouraged by legal warnings from an address Victor never verified closely enough.
He sent money every month.
More than enough.
Through an account Maris said Catherine had authorized.
He hated himself for not fighting harder.
He told himself if Catherine wanted distance, he would not use wealth to hunt her.
He told himself supporting Annie quietly was the only decent thing left.
For three years, every birthday card he wrote came back undelivered.
Maris said Catherine refused them.
Every Christmas gift he purchased disappeared into private shipping.
Maris said Annie received them.
Every month, money left his account.
Maris said it helped.
Now Annie was in his arms, clutching scraps from a discarded catering tray.
Victor looked at Brian.
His voice was barely audible.
“What do you mean she never wrote it?”
Brian’s eyes filled.
“I drove Mrs. Catherine to the train station that night. She was crying. She gave me that envelope for you because your mother had taken her phone and said security would remove her if she came back inside.”
Maris’s face hardened.
“Brian.”
He flinched at her voice.
Then steadied himself.
“She told me not to trust anyone else with it. I should have brought it to you. I tried.”
Victor’s jaw tightened.
“Why didn’t you?”
Brian looked at Maris.
“Mrs. Williams told me Catherine had accused me of helping her steal family documents. She said if I approached you, I’d be arrested and lose my pension. She showed me a police complaint draft with my name on it.”
Victor looked at his mother.
Maris lifted her chin.
“This is absurd.”
Brian’s voice broke.
“I kept the envelope. I couldn’t throw it away.”
He stepped closer and held it out.
Victor could not take it.
Annie was still in his arms.
So Brian placed the envelope on the nearest table, beside a champagne flute and a white rose arrangement.
Victor stared at Catherine’s handwriting.
His name.
Written across the front.
Victor.
Not typed.
Not formal.
Not distant.
His wife’s handwriting.
His real wife.
His real life.
Maris reached for the envelope.
Victor’s voice cut across the room.
“Don’t.”
Her hand stopped.
Every guest saw it.
Maris slowly lowered her arm.
“Victor, you are humiliating me at my birthday.”
He looked at Annie’s face.
The dirt on her cheek.
The bread crumbs pressed into his suit.
“No,” he said. “I think you did that before I entered the room.”
Annie whispered, “Dad?”
His expression softened instantly.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Are we in trouble?”
That was when the ballroom truly changed.
Not because of Victor’s anger.
Because an eight-year-old child holding discarded bread believed being found by her father might be dangerous.
A woman near the cake began crying.
Maris’s sister looked away.
One of Victor’s business partners set down his champagne as if it had gone sour.
May you like
Victor pressed his cheek gently to Annie’s hair.
“No,” he said. “You are not in trouble.”
