Chapter 4 - THE GHOSTS OF ST. JUDE'S
He is Marcus.
Avery stared at the ink bleeding into the damp linen napkin. Her breath hitched. The name Marcus meant nothing to her, yet the sheer terror in Martha’s eyes told a different story.
Avery looked up. Across the ballroom, Liam was laughing with the mayor. He looked perfect. Regal. Every inch the Sterling heir. But Martha’s warning echoed in her ears: Do not trust your husband. He doesn't know what he is.
She couldn't stay here. The walls of the Sterling mansion felt like a tightening vice. Victoria was watching her from across the room, her gaze sharp and predatory, waiting for Avery to snap.
Avery turned on her heel and moved briskly toward the grand staircase. She didn't run—running would draw attention—but she walked with a purposeful, rigid speed. She bypassed the guards at the mezzanine, offering a tight smile, and slipped into the lavish guest bathroom suite.
She locked the heavy oak door behind her and leaned against it, gasping for air.
She pulled out her phone. Her hands shook as she typed St. Jude’s Church Hamptons into the map app. It was three miles away. An old, forgotten parish on the edge of the cliffs.
If she left the property, Victoria’s men would take her. That’s what Martha had said. But if she stayed, Victoria would systematically strip her of her sanity, her husband, and her child.
Avery looked at her reflection in the gold-rimmed mirror. Her dress was stained. Her hair was slightly undone. But her eyes—they weren't the eyes of the timid, grateful girl who had married into royalty. They were the eyes of a mother fighting for her life.
She opened the bathroom window. It led out to the lower roof of the solarium. From there, it was a short drop to the rose garden, bypassing the main gates entirely.
Lifting her heavy silk skirt, Avery climbed through the window into the cool night air. The wind whipped her hair across her face. She navigated the roof in her heels, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. She dropped into the damp soil of the rose garden, the thorns tearing at her dress and scratching her arms, but she didn't stop.
She ran through the shadows of the hedges until she reached the service road. A caterer’s van had its engine running while the driver smoked a cigarette nearby. Without thinking, Avery slid into the driver’s seat, threw it into gear, and sped off into the darkness before the driver could even shout.
Ten minutes later, the stolen van skidded to a halt outside St. Jude’s.
The church was a decaying stone structure, wrapped in ivy and suffocated by the fog rolling off the ocean. The front doors were heavy, weathered oak, slightly ajar.
Avery pushed them open. The interior smelled of old wax and damp wood. Moonlight filtered through the cracked stained glass, casting long, eerie shadows across the empty pews.
She walked down the center aisle, her heels clicking loudly in the dead silence.
The vault.
She reached the altar. To the side, partially hidden behind a faded tapestry, was an old iron donation vault embedded into the stone wall. It was meant for alms, centuries ago. It had a heavy, rusted keyhole.
Avery opened her clutch and pulled out the bloodstained key Victoria had given her.
Her hand trembled as she inserted the key into the lock. It fit perfectly. With a heavy, grinding groan, the mechanism turned.
Avery pulled the heavy iron door open. Inside, a cloud of stale dust greeted her.
She reached into the dark cavity. Her fingers brushed against cold leather. She pulled it out.
It was a thick, black leather diary. It was old, the edges worn smooth. And pressed into the cover in faded gold lettering were her father’s initials: T.M. - Thomas Mitchell.
A tear slipped down her cheek. He was here. He had left this for her.
Avery frantically opened the diary. The pages were filled with her father’s neat, architectural handwriting. She flipped to the last entry, dated three days before his supposed suicide.
They’re going to kill me. Victoria found out that I know. The Sterling empire is a lie. Arthur is dying, and Victoria needed an heir to secure her position on the board. But her husband was sterile. He couldn't give her a child. So she bought one.
Avery stopped breathing. She read the lines again. She bought one.
She made a deal with the devil. A syndicate boss operating under the guise of an investment firm. He gave her a child to secure her throne, and in return, she laundered his money through the Sterling Foundation. The child isn't a Sterling. He’s a monster’s blood.
Avery’s hands shook so violently she nearly dropped the book. Liam wasn't a Sterling.
She turned the page. Attached with a rusted paperclip was a birth certificate.
Mother: Victoria Sterling.
Father: Marcus Vance.
Marcus Vance. The ruthless underworld kingpin who ran half of the city's illegal ports, a man who the FBI hadn't been able to touch for three decades. He was Liam’s biological father.
Suddenly, a loud, sharp sound echoed through the empty church.
The heavy oak doors at the entrance slammed shut.
Avery gasped, spinning around, clutching the diary to her chest.
Footsteps echoed from the back of the church. Slow. Deliberate. Heavy.
A figure emerged from the shadows of the narthex.
It was Liam.
May you like
His tuxedo was damp from the fog. His face was unreadable, completely stripped of the warmth she had loved for years. In his right hand, reflecting the dim moonlight, he held a sleek, black handgun.
“You shouldn't have run, Avery,” Liam said, his voice cold, devoid of any emotion. “My mother warned me you were too dangerous to be left alone.”
