Chapter 133 The Final Hour
Victoria：POV
That bitch was out there celebrating while I sat here with broken bones and a shattered future, waiting for dawn to bring my final reckoning.
I won't let her have her way.
The clock on my nightstand read 6:47 AM.
Two hours and thirteen minutes until I had to face Julian Sterling and whatever hell Adrian had prepared for me in that office.
My broken hand throbbed with each heartbeat, the makeshift splint Dr. Harrison had applied doing nothing to stop the bones from grinding together whenever I moved.
Even breathing hurt—my ribs screamed with every shallow inhale, reminding me that Catherine's hired thug had done his job well.
I forced myself upright, biting down on a scream as the movement sent fresh waves of agony through my torso.
The Chanel dress I'd worn to yesterday's lunch was stiff with dried blood, the fabric clinging to the cuts on my side.
I needed to change.
Needed to look like I hadn't spent the night bleeding and terrified in my own apartment.
But what's the point? The thought slithered through my exhausted mind.
They already know everything. Julian knows. Looking put-together won't change the fact that I'm fucked.
Still, I dragged myself to the closet, each step an exercise in controlled agony.
My reflection in the full-length mirror stopped me cold.
Purple shadows under my eyes made me look like I'd aged a decade overnight.
My right hand, swollen to twice its normal size and bent at unnatural angles beneath the splint, looked like something from a horror film.
The bruises spreading from my abdomen to my ribs created a grotesque map of violence across my skin.
This is what happens when you lose, I thought, gripping the closet door with my good hand.
This is what happens when the mask finally falls off.
I pulled out a navy Armani suit—conservative, professional, the kind of thing you wore when you needed to project confidence you didn't feel.
Getting dressed was torture.
Every movement of my arm sent lightning bolts of pain through my broken fingers.
I had to leave the blouse partially unbuttoned because I couldn't manage the fastenings with one hand.
The blazer hung awkwardly, unable to properly accommodate the bulk of the splint.
By the time I'd finished, I was shaking with pain and exhaustion.
I swallowed two of the Tylenol Dr. Harrison had left—not enough to actually help, but all I dared take while needing to stay sharp—and forced myself to look at my phone.
Seventeen missed calls. All from unknown numbers.
Three voicemails I couldn't bring myself to listen to.
And one text message from Julian, timestamped 3:42 AM: [Don't even think about running. I'll know.]
The threat was clear.
He had people watching.
Probably had someone stationed outside my building right now, ready to follow if I tried to disappear.
Adrian had frozen my accounts, tracked my crypto, cut off every escape route I'd spent years preparing.
They'd boxed me in completely, ensuring I had nowhere to go except that office.
My laptop sat on the nightstand, still open from when I'd frantically checked my accounts last night.
I pulled it closer with my good hand, wincing as the movement jarred my broken fingers.
Maybe there was something I'd missed.
Some account Adrian hadn't found, some asset I could liquidate fast enough to buy myself a few days, a week, enough time to—
The screen showed the same devastating reality.
Every account flagged.
Every holding frozen.
Even the shell companies I'd thought were untraceable had red warning banners across their dashboards.
He's thought of everything.
I slammed the laptop shut, immediately regretting it as the sharp movement sent pain shooting up my arm.
My phone buzzed again.
Not a call this time.
A text from Catherine.
[Still awake? I bet you are. Bet you've been up all night, counting down the hours. I know I have. This is better than Christmas morning. —C]
My good hand clenched around the phone, rage momentarily overpowering fear.
That bitch.
That fucking bitch who was supposed to be dead, who was supposed to have hanged herself in that cell, was out there somewhere, probably watching me through binoculars from across the street, getting off on my terror.
Another text arrived before I could process the first.
[Wear something nice. You'll want to look good for your last day as a free woman. Maybe Julian will take pity if you cry pretty enough. —C]
I threw the phone across the room.
It hit the wall with a satisfying crack, the screen splintering but not shattering completely.
The brief satisfaction faded instantly, replaced by the crushing weight of reality.
Seven hours ago, I was still someone. Still had my company, my reputation, my future. Now I'm a criminal waiting for sentencing.
The clock read 7:23 AM.
One hour and thirty-seven minutes.
I couldn't stay in this apartment.
The walls were closing in, every corner holding memories of the life I'd built on lies and manipulation.
The awards on my shelf—"Top Designer Under 30," "Rising Star in Fashion"—suddenly looked like props in a play that had just been canceled.
The framed photos of me at Paris Fashion Week, at the Met Gala, at all those events where I'd smiled for cameras while plotting my next move, felt like evidence of a person who no longer existed.
I grabbed my phone from where it had fallen, checking for damage.
The screen was cracked but functional.
No new messages from Julian, but three more from unknown numbers.
I didn't open them.
Couldn't handle whatever fresh terror they might contain.
Instead, I opened my contacts, scrolling past hundreds of names until I found the one I needed.
Margaret.
My housekeeper, my accomplice, the woman who'd helped me destroy evidence and manipulate photos and maintain the facade for years.
The call went straight to voicemail.
I tried again.
Same result.
A cold certainty settled over me.
Margaret was gone.
Probably disappeared the moment she heard about Catherine's "suicide," smart enough to know that a dead body meant investigations, and investigations meant everyone connected to Victoria Astor would be under scrutiny.
She'd taken her cut of the money I'd paid her over the years and vanished, leaving me alone to face the consequences.
Everyone leaves in the end.
The thought was bitter but not surprising.
I'd never inspired loyalty—only fear, or greed, or both.
Now that I had nothing left to threaten people with, no money to offer, no power to wield, of course they'd scatter like rats from a sinking ship.
My phone buzzed.
Another text from Catherine.
[Tick tock, Victoria. Better start heading to Sterling Fashion HQ. Don't want to be late for your own execution. —C]
I stared at the message, my mind racing through possibilities.
What if I just... didn't go?
What if I stayed here, locked the door, refused to participate in this farce?
They couldn't drag me out without a warrant, and even if Julian had connections with the FBI, surely it would take time to—
My phone rang.
Not an unknown number this time.
Julian's name lit up the screen.
I watched it ring six times before the call dropped.
Immediately, it started again.
My thumb hovered over the answer button.
Part of me wanted to hear his voice, wanted to know exactly how much he knew, wanted to gauge whether there was any chance—any slim possibility—that I could talk my way out of this.
But another part, the part that had kept me alive and on top for so many years, knew that talking to him now would only make things worse.
The call went to voicemail.
Thirty seconds later, a text arrived.
[You have until 9:00 AM. If you're not in my office by then, I'm calling the FBI directly and telling them you're a flight risk. They'll have agents at your door within the hour. Your choice: come in and cooperate, or force me to have you arrested. —J]