Chapter 8 - THE FATHER SHE HAD TO CHOOSEVictoria read the page three times.
Her father's accounts were frozen.
The penthouse lease ended.
The Ashford Foundation suspended operations.
Three luxury brands canceled contracts.
Friends stopped calling.
Someone spray-painted THIEF across the entrance to one of the family's former offices.
The woman who once needed forty minutes to decide which shoes matched breakfast suddenly owned two suitcases.
I offered her money.
She refused.
“I need a job.”
I stared at her.
“You've never had one.”
“Thank you for the encouragement.”
“What can you do?”
She glared.
“I have a degree in art history.”
“That wasn't the question.”
She almost snapped.
Then stopped herself.
“I organized three charity galas.”
“Your assistants organized them.”
“I supervised.”
“They complained about you.”
She stared.
“You heard that?”
“Everyone heard that.”
A long pause.
“What else?”
She sat at the kitchen island.
“I know donors. Events. Branding. Fundraising.”
“That can be a real skill.”
“It is a real skill.”
“Good. Apply somewhere.”
She did.
Eleven companies rejected her.
Two didn't respond.
One offered an interview.
A small nonprofit in Queens supporting women reentering the workforce after homelessness.
The irony wasn't lost on either of us.
Victoria almost refused.
Then she went.
She came home four hours later.
“Well?”
“I got the job.”
I smiled.
She looked offended.
“Why are you smiling?”
“Because you look terrified.”
“I am.”
“What are they paying?”
She told me.
It was less than she once spent monthly on handbags.
I waited for her reaction.
She shrugged.
“Apparently humans can survive without handbags.”
Progress.
Meanwhile, the investigation tightened.
Federal agents discovered that Thomas Vane had booked a charter flight under a false name.
Alexander had withdrawn $400,000 cash.
The men were running.
That should have made me feel safer.
It didn't.
People become dangerous when their exits disappear.
I doubled security around Victoria.
She hated it.
“I can't show up at a homeless-services nonprofit with two men in suits.”
“They're not wearing suits.”
“That's not comforting.”
One afternoon, she disappeared from security for twenty minutes.
I nearly lost my mind.
She returned carrying groceries.
“What were you thinking?”
“I walked around the block.”
“You're being threatened.”
“I know.”
“Then act like it.”
Her eyes flashed.
“You don't own me.”
The words landed differently now.
We both heard it.
Her wedding speech.
Her father's manipulation.
Alexander's plans.
Money and control.
I stepped backward.
“You're right.”
Victoria blinked.
“I am?”
“You're right. I don't own you.”
She looked almost disappointed that there wouldn't be a fight.
“But if you're staying in my building while someone is threatening your life, security isn't optional.”
She considered that.
“Can they stay outside my workplace?”
“Yes.”
“And stop calling me Ms. Ashford every ten seconds?”
“I'll see what can be done.”
Her mouth twitched.
That night, my mother invited Victoria to dinner.
I assumed Victoria would refuse.
She didn't.
Margaret lived in the same small New Jersey house where I'd grown up.
When we arrived, Victoria stared at the porch.
“You really grew up here?”
“Yes.”
“Your bedroom?”
“Upstairs.”
She looked at the cracked driveway.
“And you never bought her a mansion?”
“I tried.”
“What happened?”
“She threatened to haunt me before she was dead.”
My mother opened the door.
“I heard that.”
Dinner was chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, and apple pie.
Victoria ate everything.
Afterward, she stood beside Margaret at the sink.
“Mrs. Mercer…”
“Margaret.”
“I'm sorry.”
My mother kept washing a plate.
“For?”
Victoria swallowed.
“For insulting your clothes. For acting like money made me better than you. For embarrassing Nathan. For…”
She stopped.
Margaret looked at her.
“That's enough for one apology.”
“I was horrible.”
“You were.”
Victoria looked startled.
My mother handed her a towel.
“You're supposed to tell me I'm not.”
“No.”
Victoria laughed unexpectedly.
Margaret continued.
“But horrible behavior doesn't have to become a permanent personality.”
Victoria dried the plate.
“How do I fix it?”
“You don't fix everything.”
“What do I do?”
“Something better next.”
Victoria was silent.
Then nodded.
On the drive back to Manhattan, she stared out the window.
“Your mother is terrifying.”
“You're just noticing?”
“I understand you better now.”
I glanced at her.
“What does that mean?”
“You don't care when people think you're poor.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I know I'm not.”
She laughed.
Then became serious.
“I cared so much.”
“I know.”
“I think I was terrified people would discover Dad wasn't as successful as he pretended.”
“Did you know?”
“Not consciously.”
That answer felt true.
We reached Manhattan around ten.
Two blocks from the penthouse, our security SUV swerved.
A truck had run a red light.
It slammed directly into the rear quarter panel.
Metal screamed.
Victoria's head snapped sideways.
Airbags exploded.
Our driver fought for control.
The SUV spun.
I grabbed Victoria.
The truck reversed.
Not an accident.
It came toward us again.
Our security vehicle behind us accelerated and blocked it.
Two men jumped from the truck.
One had a gun.
Shots cracked through the street.
People screamed.
Our driver shouted, “Down!”
I pushed Victoria beneath the dashboard.
Glass shattered.
Then the attackers fled.
The entire ambush lasted seventeen seconds.
Victoria was shaking against me.
Blood ran from a cut near my temple.
“Nathan.”
“I'm okay.”
“They tried to kill us.”
“Yes.”
She gripped my shirt.
I looked through the shattered window.
The truck had been abandoned.
Inside it, police later found something placed deliberately on the passenger seat.
One page.
Torn from my father's ledger.
The missing page.
And on that page was the name of the person my father believed had ordered the sabotage of his plane.
Not Thomas Vane.
Not Gregory Crane.
Not Alexander.
May you like
Charles Ashford.
Victoria's father.
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