Chapter 172
Chapter 172:
“Open it,” Arthur whispered.
Her fingers felt numb as she pried the locket open.
There, behind a small pane of scratched glass, was a tiny, faded photograph. A baby, no more than a year old, laughing with a toothless grin. And holding the baby was a young boy with serious eyes, perhaps ten years old. Julian.
“That was the day you were brought home from the hospital,” Arthur explained, his breathing labored. “Your cousin Julian was obsessed with you. He used to sit by your crib for hours. He swore he’d protect you p>
Aurora ran her thumb over the cold silver. The connection was instantaneous and violent. It wasn’t just metal. It was an anchor. It was the physical proof that she hadn’t started as a discarded thing in a trailer park. She had started here. Loved. Wanted. By a father named Edward, and a cousin named Julian.
“I am Aurora Kensington,” she whispered, testing the weight of the name on her tongue. It tasted like iron and blood.
“You are,” Arthur said firmly, squeezing her hand with surprising strength. “And don’t let anyone in this house tell you otherwise. Not Eleanor. Not Vivian. You belong here p>
Outside the heavy oak door of the medical suite, the air in the hallway was still.
Vivian Kensington pressed her ear against the wood, her knuckles white as she gripped the doorframe. She held her breath, straining to hear the muffled voices. She heard “locket.” She heard “Julian p>
A hand clamped down on her shoulder.
Vivian jumped, spinning around. Eleanor stood there, her face a mask of controlled fury. She jerked her head toward the end of the corridor.
They walked briskly, the sound of their heels swallowed by the thick Persian runners. Once they were around the corner, Eleanor spun on her daughter.
“Stop lurking like a maid,” Eleanor hissed. “It’s undignified p>
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“Did you hear them?” Vivian’s voice was a frantic whisper. “The old man has proof. A locket or something. Grandma is going to rewrite the will, Mother! She’s going to give that… that country bumpkin everything! If Julian wakes up p>
“Julian isn’t waking up,” Eleanor snapped, her eyes cold. “Dr. Pym assures me of that. And as for the girl… proof is only paper until it’s recognized p>
Vivian kicked a porcelain vase standing on a pedestal. It tipped, crashed to the floor, and shattered into a thousand blue-and-white shards.
The sound echoed like a gunshot.
“Vivian!” Eleanor snapped.
Two maids appeared from the shadows almost instantly, their eyes wide.
Eleanor composed herself in a split second. Her face smoothed out, the rage vanishing behind a veneer of aristocratic boredom.
“Clean this up,” Eleanor ordered, her voice cool. “Miss Vivian tripped. And keep your mouths shut. If I hear a whisper of this, you’ll be fired before dinner p>
The maids scrambled to their knees, picking up the sharp pieces.
Eleanor grabbed Vivian’s arm, her nails digging into the silk of her daughter’s blouse. “Panic is for poor people, Vivian. We don’t panic. We strategize p>
“Strategize what?” Vivian pulled her arm away. “She has the blood. She has the DNA. She has the old man p>
“She has a past,” Eleanor said, her eyes narrowing into slits. “Nineteen years of filth. Nineteen years of poverty. You think she spent that time in a convent? No. There is dirt on her, Vivian. And we are going to find it. I’ve already made a call to an old associate in the Bronx. Someone who remembers the Vance family. Someone with a grudge p>