Chapter 4 - THE GRIP OF IRON
The strike never landed.
In mid-air, an inch before Victoria’s manicured fingers could make contact with Eleanor’s cheek, a large, powerful hand clamped around Victoria’s wrist.
The grip was absolute, sudden, and terrifyingly cold—an iron vise that stopped the emerald-clad woman’s momentum so abruptly that her pearl necklace swung violently against her neck.
Victoria gasped, her head snapping around in shock. "What do you think you’re—"
The words died in her throat.
Standing beside her was Julian Sterling.
Julian’s face was a masterclass in terrifying composure. Not a single muscle in his jaw twitched. His dark eyes were cold, void of all warmth or human emotion, resembling the surface of a frozen black lake. He didn't look at his wife; his gaze was fixed firmly down on the blonde woman kneeling in the light-blue maid uniform.
"Julian?!" Victoria stammered, her voice dropping an octave as she tried to twist her wrist free from his grasp. The steel rings of his fingers held her effortlessly. "What are you doing?! Let go of me! This crazy, unhinged woman just put her hands on our son! Call security and have her dragged out of here!"
Julian didn't release her. If anything, his fingers tightened just enough to bring a flicker of genuine physical pain to Victoria’s face.
"Stop," Julian said.
The word was not shouted. It was uttered in a low, resonant baritone that possessed the heavy, unshakeable weight of an absolute decree.
"Julian, you're hurting me!" Victoria hissed, her cheeks flushing a deep, embarrassing scarlet as she felt the eyes of every major shareholder, political donor, and social rival locked onto them. "Release me! You're making a scene in front of the entire board!"
Julian turned his head slowly. He looked down at Victoria with a cold, detached scrutiny that was far more terrifying than any outburst of anger.
"Stop, Victoria," Julian repeated, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper that sliced cleanly through the stillness of the room. "She is his real mother."
The room dropped into a profound, suffocating vacuum.
It was as if every chandelier had simultaneously lost its light, every heart in the room had skipped a beat, and every lungs had been drained of air. The silence was absolute, heavy, and terrifying.
Victoria froze.
The blood drained from her face with violent speed, leaving her skin a ghastly, translucent shade of chalk. Her dark eyes dilated until they were nearly black, staring at her husband as if he had just spoken to her in an ancient, dead language. Her bright red lipstick stood out against her pale face like a fresh, open wound.
"What?" Victoria breathed out, her voice breaking into a fragile, pathetic squeak. "No... Julian... what kind of sick, twisted joke is this? No... This can't be happening..."
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Julian released her wrist. He didn't push her, nor did he offer her a supporting hand. He simply withdrew his fingers, stepping back.
Deprived of his physical support, Victoria’s legs gave out entirely. The strength drained from her knees as if her bones had turned to liquid. She collapsed onto the hard marble floor with a heavy, ungraceful thud, her emerald-green silk dress pooling around her like crushed leaves. As she fell, her strand of South Sea pearls caught on her bracelet, snapping the silk thread and scattering dozens of heavy white pearls across the stone floor with soft, rhythmic bouncing sounds that echoed into the silence.
