Chapter 9 - Reverse the History
The distorted voice echoed across the open terrace, competing only with the crashing surf far below.
*"You believe your father was a saint, Nathaniel,"* the voice mocked through the speaker. *"You believe Victoria was the only viper in your garden. But ask yourself this: why did Victoria target Eleanor specifically? Did you really think it was over an inheritance?"*
"If you harm a single hair on my mother's head," Nathaniel growled, the phone trembling in his white-knuckled grip, "I will spend every billion I possess hunting you to the ends of the earth. I will tear your world down to ash."
*"Save the bravado, boy,"* the voice spat back. *"Your mother isn't an innocent victim. Twenty years ago, Eleanor Vance discovered that your father was having an affair. But not with a socialite. Not with an heiress. With Arthur Miller's wife. Rose’s mother."*
Rose felt the breath violently sucked from her lungs. "That’s a lie!" she screamed toward the phone, tears spilling down her cheeks. "My mother loved my father! She died of heartbreak and sickness! You're lying!"
*"Am I, little maid?"* the voice chuckled darkly. *"Check the blueprints of the terrace, Nathaniel. The glass terrace where your beloved mother allegedly 'slipped' while Victoria stood by. Who reinforced that glass frame two weeks before the party? Who installed the weak-point hinge that allowed Eleanor to be tipped over with less than forty pounds of pressure?"*
The voice paused, letting the poison seep into every vein of Nathaniel’s consciousness.
*"It was registered to Miller Contracting. A company re-opened under Rose’s brother’s name, funded by an anonymous trust. Rose didn't save your mother on that rooftop out of pure heroism, Nathaniel. She was there because she knew the glass was set to fail. She caught Eleanor because she needed to become the indispensable savior. The perfect bride."*
The line went dead.
A dial tone buzzed, harsh and relentless.
Nathaniel stood completely still. The breeze ruffled his dark hair, but his body was rigid as a corpse. His eyes dropped to the floor, where Rose’s bridal pendant—the gold branch with the hazel diamond—lay on the marble. It had snapped off her neck when she backed away.
"Nathaniel... look at me," Rose begged, falling to her knees on the bloody marble floor. She didn't care about the severed ring. She didn't care about the blood soaking into her silk hem. She reached for his trouser leg, her scarred hands clutching the fabric. "Look at my hands. Look at the scars!"
Nathaniel looked down at her. His gaze was hollow, fractured by a devastating mixture of profound love and paralyzing horror.
"The glass cut to the bone, Nathaniel," Rose wept, holding up her palms. "I nearly severed the tendons in both my wrists holding your mother over that drop! If I planned it, if I wanted her dead or wanted to stage a rescue, would I have risked crippling myself for life? Would I have risked falling with her?!"
"A con artist playing for twenty billion dollars," Nathaniel said, his voice barely louder than a whisper, choked with agony, "would risk far more than two scarred hands."
He pulled his leg back, breaking her grip.
"Nathaniel, please!"
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"We fly back to New York right now," Nathaniel ordered coldly, turning his back on her as he strode toward the villa. "Marcus will secure you in the guest quarters of the jet. You will not touch a phone. You will not speak to your brother. If my mother dies... God help me, Rose, because no one else on this earth will."
***
