Chapter 184 The Manipulator’s Denial
The morning sun filtered weakly through the tall windows of the Hensley estate. Annabelle stood before the grand iron gates, her hands cold despite the warm air.
She had rehearsed what she would say a dozen times on the drive here, but now that she was standing in front of Victoria’s mansion, her courage wavered.
The guard opened the gate after a short phone call. “Mrs. Hensley is expecting you,” he said politely, stepping aside.
Expecting her? Annabelle frowned. Carson must have told her.
She walked up the marble steps, each one echoing against the silence. When the maid opened the door, the familiar scent of roses and old money filled the air. The house was just as she remembered—immaculate, elegant, but cold.
“Miss Annabelle,” the maid said softly. “Mrs. Hensley is in the sunroom.”
Annabelle followed the path through the long hallway. Her heels clicked on the polished floor. Portraits lined the walls—paintings of Victoria, of Carson, of the late Mr. Hensley. They watched her silently, as if judging every step she took.
When she reached the sunroom, Victoria was already waiting, seated gracefully beside a glass table. She wore a light blue silk dress, her hair perfectly pinned. A cup of tea rested by her hand.
“Annabelle,” Victoria said warmly, her lips curling into a smile. “It’s been too long. Please, sit down.”
Annabelle didn’t sit. “You knew I’d come.”
Victoria chuckled softly. “When a young woman calls my son in the middle of the night, I tend to hear about it. Carson was worried about you.”
Annabelle’s jaw tightened. “I’m not here to talk about Carson.”
Victoria raised a delicate eyebrow. “Oh? Then what brings you here?”
Annabelle pulled a folded document from her bag and placed it on the table. “You can stop pretending, Mrs. Hensley. I know you were involved in my father’s case. I found your name linked to one of the shell companies that moved money before his arrest.”
For the first time, Victoria’s eyes flickered. But only for a second. Then she laughed—a light, elegant sound that filled the room.
“My dear,” she said, touching her pearls, “you’ve been reading too many conspiracy theories.”
“It’s not a theory,” Annabelle said firmly. “The transfers lead to your foundation. The dates line up. You were part of it.”
Victoria sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Annabelle, I understand how painful this must be. But your father’s case was… unfortunate. You’re looking for someone to blame, and I seem to be the easiest target.”
Annabelle frowned. “You were there, in the courtroom. You spoke to the prosecutors.”
“Of course, I did,” Victoria said smoothly. “Carson was heartbroken about what happened to you and your family. I tried to help. I offered to speak with the legal team to see if there was a way to reduce your father’s sentence. If I remember correctly, you refused my offer.”
“That’s not true,” Annabelle snapped. “My father said people worked behind the scenes to frame him. He said powerful hands—”
“Powerful hands,” Victoria interrupted with a small smile. “He always did have a flair for drama.”
Annabelle’s breath caught. “You think he was lying?”
Victoria’s eyes softened. “I think he was desperate, darling. Prison changes a man. It makes them see enemies where there are none.”
Annabelle’s pulse quickened. “He’s not crazy,” she said quietly.
Victoria reached across the table and touched her hand gently. “No one said he was. But grief makes us see patterns that don’t exist. Tell me, Annabelle—how long have you been sleeping? Properly sleeping?”
Annabelle pulled her hand away. “Don’t do that,” she said sharply. “Don’t make this about me.”
Victoria sighed again, her tone patient and maternal. “You’ve been through so much. Success, loss, pressure—it’s natural to break under it. I’ve seen it happen to the strongest people.”
Annabelle felt her throat tighten. “You’re trying to make me doubt myself.”
“Doubt can be healthy,” Victoria said with a small smile. “It keeps us grounded. Sometimes the truth isn’t what we want it to be. Your father made mistakes, Annabelle. Big ones. And it’s easier to believe someone forced his hand than to accept that he might have caused his own fall.”
“That’s not what happened,” Annabelle whispered.
Victoria tilted her head. “Then prove it. With real evidence. Not half-baked files and old signatures.”
Annabelle’s eyes flashed. “I have enough.”
“Do you?” Victoria asked quietly. “Enough to go public? Enough to risk your reputation? Your company? Everything you’ve built?”
Annabelle hesitated.
Victoria smiled faintly. “I admire your spirit, truly. But chasing ghosts will only destroy you the way it destroyed him.”
Annabelle clenched her fists. “You sound very sure of yourself for someone who’s innocent.”
Victoria laughed again, a sound that sent chills down Annabelle’s spine. “Confidence isn’t guilt, my dear. It's an experience. You’ll learn that soon enough.”
Annabelle’s mind spun. Every word from Victoria was wrapped in calm reason, every sentence perfectly placed to twist her thoughts.
“You’re lying,” Annabelle said at last, though her voice trembled.
Victoria stood gracefully and walked to the window. “I have no reason to lie. But I do have a reason to protect my family. You understand that, don’t you?”
Annabelle stared at her. “Protect them from what?”
Victoria turned, her expression unreadable. “From the past. From things better left buried.”
Annabelle’s heart pounded. “So, you admit—”
“I admit nothing,” Victoria said quickly, her smile returning. “I only hope you find peace with whatever truth you’re chasing.”
Annabelle picked up the papers. “You can hide behind that calm voice all you want, but I’ll find proof.”
Victoria’s voice dropped. “Careful, Annabelle. The truth can be cruel. It doesn’t always love the one who seeks it.”
Annabelle’s chest tightened. “Is that a warning?”
“It’s advice,” Victoria said, walking toward her. “Don’t destroy yourself trying to rewrite history. Some stories are better left unfinished.”
Annabelle’s jaw set. “You’re scared I’ll finish it.”
For a brief moment, Victoria’s eyes hardened. Then she smiled again, perfectly composed. “I think we’re done here.”
Annabelle turned to leave, her hands shaking. As she reached the door, Victoria’s voice followed her.
“Annabelle,” she called softly.
Annabelle stopped.
Victoria smiled faintly. “You have your father’s fire. I always admired that. But remember—fire burns, no matter who holds it.”
Annabelle didn’t reply. She walked out without looking back.
Outside, the air felt heavy. She gripped the railing, her breath uneven. For a moment, she almost believed Victoria’s calm explanations. Almost.
But then she remembered her father’s voice—the haunted warning, the tremor in his words.
“Those closest to you may not be who they seem.”
Annabelle looked back at the grand house, its white walls gleaming in the sunlight. It stood tall, proud, and deceitful—just like the woman inside.
She whispered under her breath, “You can lie all you want, Victoria. I’ll still find the truth.”
And with that, she walked down the steps, her mind set, though her heart trembled.
Behind the window, Victoria watched her leave, her smile fading slowly. For a brief second, the mask slipped, revealing the cold sharpness beneath.
Then she turned away, her reflection disappearing into the glass.