Chapter 134 Point of No Return
Victoria: POV
The message was clinical, devoid of emotion.
This wasn't the Julian who used to look at me with guilt and obligation, who'd flown to Paris a dozen times to check on my "treatment," who'd promised to marry me as soon as his contract with Elena expired.
This was Julian Sterling, CEO of Sterling Conglomerate, and I was just another problem to be dealt with.
I typed out a response with my good hand, deleting and rewriting it three times before finally sending: [I'll be there.]
His reply came instantly: [Good. Adrian will be present. So will my attorneys. We're recording everything. Don't bother lying—we already have all the evidence we need.]
The clock read 8:07 AM.
Fifty-three minutes.
I forced myself to move, gathering what I needed—wallet, keys, phone.
My purse felt impossibly heavy as I slung it over my shoulder, the weight pulling at my injured ribs.
I caught another glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror and almost laughed at the absurdity.
Here I was, dressed like I was heading to a business meeting, when in reality I was walking toward my own destruction.
The elevator ride down felt like descending into hell.
Each floor that passed brought me closer to the moment when I'd have to step outside, get into a car, drive to Sterling Fashion HQ, and face the man whose life I'd tried to control for so long.
The man whose wife I'd tormented, whose child I'd—
No. Don't think about planning that attack on the rooftop of New York Presbyterian Hospital. Don't think about the baby. Don't think about Elena in that hospital bed, crying over the child she'd lost.
Don't think about the fact that you put those men up to it, that you told Catherine exactly how to make it look like an accident, that you—
The elevator doors opened.
The lobby was empty except for the doorman, who gave me a strange look as I passed.
Did he know?
Had the news already spread through the building's staff network?
Victoria Astor, the famous designer, is actually a criminal. Pass it on.
Outside, the morning air was crisp and cold.
Manhattan was just waking up, early commuters hurrying past with coffee cups and briefcases, completely oblivious to the personal apocalypse happening in their midst.
I stood on the sidewalk, momentarily paralyzed by the weight of what was about to happen.
My phone buzzed.
Catherine again.
[I can see you from here. You look like shit. :) —C]
I spun around, searching the street, the windows across the way, the parked cars.
Where was she?
Was she really watching, or was this just another mind game designed to keep me off-balance?
Another text: [Relax. I'm not actually there. But I bet that got your heart racing, didn't it? Now get moving. Julian's waiting. —C]
I wanted to scream.
Wanted to throw my phone into traffic and watch it shatter.
Wanted to run back upstairs, pack whatever I could carry, and disappear before anyone could stop me.
But my frozen accounts meant no plane tickets, no hotel rooms, no way to survive on the run.
And Julian's threat about the FBI meant I'd be arrested within hours if I tried.
I'm trapped. Completely, utterly trapped.
A black car pulled up to the curb.
Not a taxi—too sleek, too expensive.
The back window rolled down, revealing a man in a dark suit with an earpiece.
Security.
Julian's security.
"Ms. Astor," he said, his tone professionally neutral. "Mr. Sterling sent me to ensure you arrive safely."
Ensure I arrive. Not offer me a ride.
This wasn't courtesy.
This was surveillance.
I climbed into the back seat, my broken hand screaming in protest as I awkwardly maneuvered myself in.
The driver didn't help, didn't even acknowledge my struggle.
He just put the car in gear and pulled into traffic, heading toward Midtown.
The drive took seventeen minutes.
I counted every second, watching the city slide past outside the tinted windows.
We passed the coffee shop where I used to meet with designers, the boutique where I'd once launched a capsule collection, the corner where paparazzi had photographed me with Julian last year, both of us smiling for the cameras while I secretly plotted how to destroy his marriage.
All of it gone. All of it over.
Sterling Fashion HQ loomed ahead, its glass and steel facade gleaming in the morning sun.
The building that had represented everything I wanted—power, prestige, proximity to Julian—now looked like a courthouse.
The driver pulled up to the private entrance, the one reserved for executives and VIPs.
"Ninth floor," he said. "Mr. Sterling's private conference room. They're expecting you."
I climbed out, my legs shaking so badly I had to lean against the car for a moment to steady myself.
The driver didn't wait to see if I was okay.
He just pulled away, leaving me alone on the sidewalk.
8:54 AM.
Six minutes early.
I could still run.
Could turn around right now, flag down a taxi, head to the airport and try to talk my way onto a flight with cash and charm and whatever remnants of my old life I could scrape together.
But even as the thought formed, I knew it was impossible.
Julian had eyes everywhere.
Adrian had already frozen everything.
There was nowhere to go.
So this is it. This is how it ends.
I walked through the doors, past security who barely glanced at me, into the elevator that would carry me up to my judgment.
The ascent felt both too fast and agonizingly slow.
When the doors opened on the ninth floor, I saw Adrian Stone waiting in the hallway, his expression cold and professional.
"Ms. Astor," he said, gesturing toward the conference room. "Mr. Sterling is ready for you."
I followed him down the corridor, each step bringing me closer to the moment I'd been dreading all night.
Through the glass walls of the conference room, I could see Julian sitting at the head of the table, his posture rigid with barely controlled fury.
Two men in suits flanked him—lawyers, clearly.
A recording device sat in the center of the table, its red light already blinking.
Adrian opened the door.
The sound of it closing behind me felt like a cell door slamming shut.
Julian didn't stand.
Didn't greet me.
Just stared with eyes that held no trace of the guilt or obligation I'd manipulated for so long.
When he finally spoke, his voice was ice.
"Sit down, Victoria. We have a lot to discuss."
I lowered myself into the chair across from him, my broken hand throbbing, my ribs aching, my entire body screaming that this was wrong, that I should run, that I should fight.
But there was nowhere left to run, and nothing left to fight with.
That bitch Elena was out there somewhere, probably celebrating while I sat here with broken bones and a shattered future, waiting for dawn to bring my final reckoning.
But I won't let her have her way.
The thought crystallized as Julian began speaking, laying out the evidence Adrian had compiled.
Even now, even with everything crumbling around me, I couldn't just surrender.