Chapter 32 Secrets from the grave

Chapter 32 Secrets from the grave
VICTORIA POV

Grrrng! Grnnnng! GRNNNNG!

My phone hasn’t stopped vibrating since dawn. At first, I thought I was dreaming but I kept hearing sounds like a chainsaw buzzing somewhere in the distance until the persistent vibration against my nightstand drags me toward consciousness. 

I groan, burying my face deeper into the cool satin of my pillow.

“For fuck’s sake…” I mumble, voice muffled and thick with sleep.

The buzzing stops.

Peace.

Two seconds later—GRNNNNG!

I flinch. The vibration jolts through the penthouse again.

I could turn it off. I should turn it off. But my arms feel heavy, my bones jelly, and the idea of moving seems like a betrayal to my own body. So I ignore it and close my eyes again.

But then—another sound.

At first it’s faint, like soft murmurs. Then louder. Closer. A low rumble of voices mixed with frantic shuffling.

I freeze.

No. Not inside. But—

Outside.

What the hell?

I force myself upright, wincing at the sudden rush of blood to my head. My penthouse is drenched in morning light. Golden, warm, annoyingly cheerful, completely at odds with the pit forming in my stomach.

I pad across the bedroom floor, tugging my silk robe loosely around me as I walk toward the tall floor-to-ceiling windows.

As I get closer, the noise sharpens—camera shutters clicking like gunshots, voices overlapping, shouting, demanding, pleading.

My brows knit together.

“What the actual fuck is happening?” I snap under my breath, stepping up to the glass.

Then I see them.

A sea of reporters.

Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Cameras raised. Microphones pointed like spears. Security struggling to hold the barricade line.

Outside my building.

My gut drops. Is this some kind of joke. 

I blink once. Twice. But the nightmare remains.

Why are they here? What could possibly—

My phone buzzes violently in my hand. I glance down at the caller ID.

Benjamin.

The spineless fool. 

I exhale sharply and swipe the call.

“What?” I bark.

“Mrs. Blackthorne, please—please listen carefully,” Benjamin rushes out, breathless, panicked. “Don’t leave your penthouse. Not under any circumstances. The situation outside is—”

“What situation?” I snap, pacing back to my bed. “Why are the press swarming my building at seven in the goddamn morning?”

“There’s—there’s news,” he stammers. “Some malicious reports have been circulating about you since the early hours of this morning. Online. Everywhere. It’s escalating by the minute.”

My pulse kicks. “What exactly do you mean by malicious?”

“Ma’am… the tabloids. It’s—well… It's bad. You’re—” He swallows audibly. “You’re trending. Globally.”

He rushes the last words so fast it turns into a verbal blur.

“I can’t understand a thing you’re saying, Benjamin,” I hiss. “Speak. Clearly.”

“I’m trying, ma’am—”

“Then try harder.” My voice lashes sharp as glass. This fool is always nervous and scared. 

He inhales shakily. “Victoria… someone leaked information about your past, things you have done”

My breath stutters.

“What information?”

The line is silent for half a second, that half second too long, too heavy—before I can hear him start to hyperventilate slightly.

“The kind of information that should have remained buried,” he whispers.

A cold, crawling sensation climbs up my spine.

No.

No. No. No.

“I’m sending the details to your phone now,” he says quickly. “But please—stay inside. And do not react publicly. Not yet. Not until I—”

I hang up on him. This idiot thinks he can suddenly advise me now and I don’t even have the patience for drawn-out warnings.

My fingers tremble as I open my phone.

And instantly, I stop breathing.

#VictoriaBlackthorneExposed

#BlackthorneSecrets

#WhoIsTheRealVictoria

#ViciousVictoria

Every notification slams into me like a physical blow. Ping after ping after ping—screenshots, videos, old files, photos that should’ve never existed, theories, accusations, twisted rumours, fragments of a past I had carved out of my bones and locked in the darkest parts of my memory.

My throat burns. My vision swims.

“What—?” My voice cracks. “How…? How is this—”

I scroll further.

And then I see it.

That photo.

The one I destroyed years ago. I burnt it myself. 

The one I swore no one on earth would ever see again.

It stares back at me—mocking me, taunting me, ripping open wounds I spent years stitching shut.

A vicious surge of rage tears through me like wildfire.

I whirl toward my vanity.

Bottles, jars, crystal perfume decanters, all neatly arranged standing there innocently, unaware they’re about to become casualties.

With one furious sweep of my arm, I send everything crashing to the floor.

Glass shatters.

Liquids spill.

Candles roll across the marble like tiny corpses.

The noise echoes loud and violent, exactly how I feel.

I brace my hands against the vanity, chest heaving, breath sharp and ragged. My reflection stares back at me. Wild eyes, flushed cheeks, hair tousled, robe slipping from one shoulder.

I look… dangerous.

Broken.

Cornered.

I sink onto the stool, gripping the edge until my knuckles bleach white.

My phone buzzes again.

New hashtags. New posts. New lies. New truths. Everything mixed into a poisonous cocktail meant to destroy me.

My heart pounds so hard it hurts.

This isn’t just scandal.

This is annihilation.

This is war.

And there’s only one name in my mind. One name that fits into the shape of the betrayal burning through my veins.

Ronan.

Ronan.

RONAN. MY OWN SON. 

I taste bitterness on my tongue.

“Of course,” I whisper, voice trembling with fury. “Of course it’s you.”

I grab my phone again, scrolling with shaking fingers. Every new headline feels like a slap.

“Victoria Blackthorne Hidden Past Shocks Industry.”

“Dark Ties Uncovered – Victoria Blackthorne’s Secrets Revealed.”

My stomach twists violently.

He wouldn’t.

Would he?

I press a hand against my forehead, trying to breathe, trying to think, but anger is screaming too loudly in my skull.

I stand abruptly.

The room blurs.

“Why can’t he just stay quiet. Why can’t he let me handle it all. Why the hell is he choosing Annabelle over me”

“Why?” I hiss under my breath. “Why now? Why this? Maybe I shouldn’t have kicked him out of the company”

The reporters’ shouts rise from below, echoing through the glass.

“VICTORIA! IS IT TRUE?”

“VICTORIA, LOOK HERE!”

“VICTORIA DID YOU REALLY DO ALL THESE”

It hits me all at once.

The exposure. The humiliation. The betrayal.

My secrets.

The ones I buried so deep I thought even the earth would forget them.

Now—dragged out of their grave.

Exposed.

Rotting in the sunlight.

I sink slowly to my knees amid shattered perfume bottles, gripping the silk of my robe like it might keep me from falling apart entirely.

Tears sting my eyes but I refuse to let them fall.

No.

Not yet.

I swallow hard, straightening my spine even on the floor.

If Ronan thinks he can destroy me with this?

He’s forgotten who the hell I am.

I wipe a stray tear before it can slip down my cheek.

Fine.

Let him come for me.

Let the world come for me.

Because I will burn everything to the ground before I let anyone bury me.

And Ronan?

He has no idea what storm he just unleashed.

“Game on,” I whisper.