Chapter 128 The Unraveling
Victoria: POV
The water scalded my hands as I scrubbed them under the faucet for the third time in an hour, watching pink-tinged soap suds swirl down the drain.
My reflection in the bathroom mirror looked like a stranger—hollow cheeks, shadows under my eyes deep enough to pool water, lips bitten raw.
Sleep well, Victoria. If you can.
The text message from last night still glowed behind my eyelids every time I blinked. Unknown number. Untraceable, according to my security team. Just like the seventeen calls before it.
I dried my hands on the monogrammed towel—V.A. embroidered in gold thread—and noticed they were shaking again. Had been shaking for days now. Weeks, maybe.
Time had become fluid, unreliable. The days bled into nights, and the nights stretched into eternities where every shadow held Catherine's ghost.
Dead women don't make phone calls, I told myself firmly, gripping the marble countertop. Dead women don't text. Dead women don't—
My phone buzzed.
I lunged for it, nearly knocking over my prescription bottles. Xanax. Ambien. Prozac. All of them prescribed by Dr. Reyes, who looked at me with that careful, clinical concern that made me want to scream.
The screen showed Malica's name. My bodyguard. Not an unknown number.
Relief flooded through me so intensely I had to sit down on the closed toilet lid.
"Yes?" My voice came out raspy. When had I last had water?
"Ms. Astor, just confirming—you canceled the Bergdorf meeting this morning, correct?" His tone was professional, neutral. "And you still want to proceed with the investor lunch at Le Bernardin?"
Right. I'd canceled Bergdorf yesterday, claimed food poisoning. But the investors—Richard Thomas and his partner—had been the ones to set up today's lunch. Three weeks of back-and-forth emails.
Canceling would look suspicious. Weak.
And I can't afford to look weak. Not now.
"Yes," I forced out. "I'll be ready in twenty minutes."
I ended the call and stared at my reflection again. The navy Chanel suit hung loose on my frame—I'd lost nearly fifteen pounds in three weeks. My collarbones jutted out sharp enough to cast shadows. Makeup could only do so much to hide the damage.
I finished my face with trembling hands. Red lipstick. Winged eyeliner. The armor of a woman who had everything under control.
The reflection in the mirror almost looked convincing.
---
The elevator ride down to the lobby felt interminable. Forty-seven floors. I counted every single one, watching the numbers descend, trying to focus on something concrete. Something real.
Malica waited by the car, his hand resting casually on his hip.
I knew he was armed. Had insisted on it after the fifth call, when I'd finally broken down and told my security team I was being "harassed by an unknown party."
They'd swept my apartment for bugs. Changed all my locks. Installed additional cameras. Traced the phone numbers—all burner cells, purchased with cash from different states, impossible to track.
Professional, they'd said. Someone who knew what they were doing.
Or a ghost who doesn't leave fingerprints.
"Ms. Astor." Malica opened the car door. "Are you feeling alright? You look pale."
"I'm fine." The lie came automatically. "Just tired. Bad night."
Every night was a bad night now. I'd lie awake in my king-size bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for my phone to ring. Sometimes it did. Sometimes it didn't. The not knowing was worse.
The car pulled into traffic, and I watched Manhattan blur past the tinted windows. People going about their normal lives. Shopping. Working. Existing without looking over their shoulders every five seconds.
What did that feel like? I couldn't remember anymore.
My phone buzzed.
I nearly dropped it.
Unknown number.
My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I thought I might vomit. Malica glanced at me in the rearview mirror, concern flickering across his face.
"Everything okay back there?"
I nodded, unable to speak, and answered the call with shaking fingers.
Silence on the other end. Just breathing. Slow. Deliberate.
"Who is this?" My voice cracked. "What do you want from me?"
A laugh. Low. Distorted. Mechanical.
"You know what I want, Victoria."
Catherine's voice. Or what sounded like Catherine's voice, filtered through some kind of modulator that made it sound like it was coming from the grave.
"You're dead," I whispered. "You're fucking dead. I saw the news report. The death certificate. You can't—"
"Can't I?" The voice turned mocking. "Or maybe I'm exactly what you deserve. A ghost. A reminder. The consequence you've been running from."
"This isn't real. You're not real. I'm—I'm having a breakdown, that's all. Dr. Reyes said—"
"Dr. Reyes doesn't know what you did to my family. To Elena. To everyone you've ever used as a pawn in your sick little games."
The car jerked to a stop at a red light. I pressed my palm against the window, feeling the cool glass against my burning skin.
"I didn't—Catherine, if this is really you, I swear I didn't know what would happen to your family. I—"
"Liar." The word came out as a hiss. "You knew exactly what you were doing. You always know. That's what makes you so dangerous, Victoria. You plan. You manipulate. You destroy. And then you walk away clean while everyone else burns."
"Please." Tears streamed down my face, ruining my carefully applied makeup. "Please, just tell me what you want. Money? I can pay you. I can—"
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone, chest heaving, mascara running in black rivulets down my cheeks. Marlica was saying something, asking if I was okay, if he should pull over, but I couldn't hear him over the roaring in my ears.
This is real. Catherine is alive. And she's going to destroy me.
---
Le Bernardin was packed with the usual lunch crowd—Manhattan's elite, air-kissing and name-dropping over thirty-dollar appetizers. I arrived ten minutes early, scanning every face in the restaurant with paranoid intensity.
Was that her? The blonde in the corner booth? No, too young. The brunette by the window? Wrong build. The woman in sunglasses at the bar?
She could be anyone. Anywhere.
"Ms. Astor." The maître d' appeared at my elbow. "Your guests have arrived. Right this way."
I followed him to a table near the center of the room—completely exposed, visible from every angle. Richard Thomas and his partner stood as I approached, two men in their fifties with expensive watches and practiced smiles.
"Victoria, you look lovely as always," Richard said, though his eyes lingered a beat too long on my face. Taking in the weight loss. The shadows I hadn't quite managed to conceal.
"Thank you, Richard." I slid into my seat and accepted a menu I had no intention of reading. "Shall we order?"
The conversation flowed around me like water. Profit margins. Market projections. Expansion opportunities. I nodded in the right places. Smiled when expected. But my eyes kept darting to the other diners, searching for Catherine's face in the crowd.
She's here. I know she's here.
Midway through the first course—some kind of fish I couldn't taste—my phone buzzed in my purse.
I pulled it out under the table. Unknown number. A text this time.
[Second table from the left. Woman in the red dress. She's been staring at you for five minutes.]
My head snapped up. Second table from the left. Red dress.
There. A woman in her thirties, dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, wearing a crimson sheath dress. She was looking directly at me, her expression unreadable.
Our eyes met.
She smiled.
Not Catherine. Couldn't be. Wrong face. Wrong build. But that smile—knowing, cruel—made my stomach turn.
My phone buzzed again.
[Not me. Just a coincidence. Or is it? You'll never know, will you? That's the beauty of paranoia, Victoria. Every stranger becomes a threat. Every smile becomes sinister. Welcome to your new reality.]
The fork slipped from my fingers and clattered against my plate. Richard and his partner both looked at me with concern.
"Victoria? Are you alright?"