Chapter132 Caged
Victoria： POV
My broken hand throbbed in rhythm with my racing heart, each pulse sending fresh waves of agony through the mangled fingers Dr. Harrison had set just hours ago. Even the slightest movement made the splint dig into swollen flesh, the bones grinding together in ways that made my vision blur.
He knows. Catherine said he knows everything.
The words circled in my head like vultures, picking apart what little remained of my composure.
I'd spent years building this persona—the fragile heiress, the devoted childhood friend, the woman who'd sacrificed everything for love. And now it was crumbling, not because I'd been careless, but because that bitch Catherine had survived when she was supposed to be rotting in a cell.
The clock on the nightstand read 2:34 AM. Six hours and twenty-six minutes until I had to face Julian Sterling's wrath.
I dragged myself to the bathroom, needing to see the damage in proper light. My ribs screamed in protest with each step, the bruises from that alley beating throbbing with every shallow breath.
The overhead bulbs were merciless, highlighting every smudge of dried blood on the Chanel dress I still wore, every shadow under my eyes, every crack in the mask I'd maintained so carefully for so long.
My right hand looked like something from a horror film—swollen to twice its normal size, the fingers bent at angles that made my stomach turn, the splint Dr. Harrison had applied doing little to hide the grotesque reality beneath. Purple bruises spread from my knuckles to my wrist, and when I tried to flex even slightly, white-hot pain shot up my arm.
This is what happens when you lose control, I thought, gripping the edge of the sink with my good hand. This is what happens when you underestimate your enemies.
But it wasn't just the physical damage that terrified me. It was what those two text messages represented—the end of every carefully constructed lie, every manipulated moment, every calculated move I'd made to secure my place in Julian's life.
Evidence. Cooperation. Criminal charges.
These weren't words that existed in the carefully curated reality I'd built. These were words that belonged to criminals, to people who got caught, to failures who'd let their masks slip at the worst possible moment.
My phone buzzed again.
I nearly dropped it into the sink, my damaged hand spasming as I fumbled for the device. Another unknown number. I watched it ring six times before the call dropped, then immediately started again from a different number. The pattern continued—unknown caller after unknown caller, each one a potential threat, each silence more damning than the last.
Is it Catherine? The police? Julian's lawyers? Reporters who've already gotten wind of the story?
The landline in the living room started ringing, the old-fashioned bell tone jangling through the apartment like an alarm. I'd forgotten I even had that connection—it was part of the building's security system, used only for deliveries and emergencies. But at two-forty in the morning, nothing good came through that line.
I pressed my good hand over my mouth to stifle the sob building in my chest. This was psychological warfare at its finest, and I was losing. Every unanswered call wound my nerves tighter, every moment of silence between rings felt like the calm before a storm I couldn't escape.
When the calls finally stopped, the silence was somehow worse.
I forced myself back to the bedroom, each step an exercise in agony as my broken hand protested every movement and my ribs sent sharp stabs through my chest. The mattress still bore the imprint of my earlier collapse, the pillows scattered from when I'd thrashed awake from nightmares I couldn't quite remember.
Everything in this apartment—every piece of furniture, every carefully chosen decoration—suddenly felt like evidence of a life that was about to be ripped away from me.
What are my options?
I sank onto the bed, my analytical mind trying to cut through the panic. Julian had given me two choices, even if he hadn't spelled them out explicitly.
Cooperate. Walk into his office at nine AM, sit down with him and Adrian and whoever else they've brought to witness my downfall. Confess everything. Every company I targeted, every shell account I used, every person I manipulated or destroyed. Hope that cooperation buys me some leniency when the authorities start building their case.
The thought made my stomach turn. Admitting defeat. Laying bare every crime I'd committed. Destroying what little remained of my reputation and dignity. Spending the next decade—maybe more—in prison.
Or run.
I glanced at my laptop, still sitting on the nightstand. I had backup accounts Adrian didn't know about. Offshore holdings that weren't linked to my name. Cryptocurrency wallets I'd set up years ago for exactly this kind of worst-case scenario. It wouldn't be much—maybe enough for a few months in some third-world country where extradition treaties were more suggestion than law.
But even as the fantasy formed, I knew it was impossible.
A notification popped up on my phone—an alert from my bank's fraud detection system. Unusual activity detected. Multiple large withdrawals flagged for review. Account temporarily frozen pending verification.
Of course. Adrian had probably already started freezing my assets, cutting off my access to the resources I'd need to disappear. They were boxing me in from every angle, ensuring I had nowhere to run, no way to fight back.
I pulled out my laptop with my good hand, wincing as the movement jarred my broken fingers. The pain was blinding, but I forced myself to type, checking account after account.
Frozen. Frozen. Frozen.
Even the offshore holdings showed pending investigations. Even the cryptocurrency wallets had been flagged by whatever sophisticated tracking software Adrian had deployed.
He's thought of everything.
The clock read 3:47 AM. Five hours and thirteen minutes.
My phone buzzed.
Not a call this time. A text from an unknown number.
[Enjoying your last night of freedom? I know I am. I've got champagne and everything. —C]
Catherine.
My good hand clenched around the phone, rage momentarily overpowering fear.