Sins Of The Father

*Sophia's POV* My fingers shook as I pressed the buzzer outside Cross Industries. The glass building stretched so high I couldn't see the top, just mirrors reflecting clouds and my own nervous face. Three cups of coffee churned in my empty stomach. I'd been too nervous to eat breakfast, too broke to buy lunch. "Name?" The voice through the speaker sounded bored. "Sophia Vale. I have a three o'clock appointment for the Cross Collection." The door clicked open. My worn heels clicked against marble floors that probably cost more than my yearly rent. Everyone in the lobby wore designer suits. My vintage blazer, the one I'd found at a charity shop and pretended was intentionally retro, felt like a costume that didn't fit. The elevator shot up so fast my ears popped. Floor thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. My phone buzzed. Isabella. *You've got this! Remember, you're brilliant!* I smiled, then saw the next message from the care facility. *Ms. Vale, please contact us regarding your mother's account balance.* My stomach dropped. I owed them two months already. If I didn't get this job... The elevator opened directly into a penthouse office. Glass walls showed London spread out like a jewelry box. The Thames curved silver in the distance. And there, behind a desk that looked carved from a single piece of black stone, sat Alexander Cross. The photos online didn't do him justice. Sharp cheekbones that could cut glass. Eyes the color of winter storms. His suit fit so perfectly it had to be custom-made. He didn't look up from the papers he was reading. "Ms. Vale." Not a question. A statement. "Sit." I sat, trying not to show how the single word made me feel like a scolded child. My portfolio bag felt cheap against the leather chair that probably cost more than my car. If I still had a car. "Your proposal was interesting." He still hadn't looked at me. "You claim you can restore the entire collection in six months." "Yes, Mr. Cross. My experience with the Venetian paintings at the Morrison Gallery…" "The Morrison Gallery that closed last year?" Now his eyes met mine. Steel gray, cold as January rain. Heat flooded my cheeks. "The closure wasn't related to our restoration work. The owner had financial…" "I know why it closed." He stood, walked to the window. His reflection watched me in the glass. "Tell me about your father, Ms. Vale." My heart stuttered. "My father? He died when I was eight. Car accident." "Did he?" Alexander turned, and something in his face made my blood turn to ice water. "That's what your mother told you?" "I don't understand what this has to do with the restoration project." He picked up a remote, clicked it at the wall. A screen appeared, showing a photograph that stole all the air from my lungs. Me, maybe seven years old, sitting on a man's shoulders. The man's face was turned away, but his hand rested on my small leg, a gold ring catching the light. "Where did you get this?" My voice came out strangled. "The real question, Ms. Vale, is why your mother lied to you about Victor Ashford being dead." The name hit me like a physical blow. Victor Ashford. I'd heard it once, whispered between nurses at Mom's facility. They'd gone quiet when they saw me. "I don't know any Victor Ashford." Alexander laughed, but it sounded like breaking glass. "No? The man who destroyed my family? The man whose blood runs through your veins?" He moved closer, and I smelled expensive cologne and something darker, like anger worn as aftershave. "You really don't know, do you?" I stood up so fast the chair scraped back. "I came here to discuss a restoration job. If you have some problem with my family…" "Sit down." "No." His eyes flashed silver, dangerous. "Your mother is at St. Mary's Private Care Facility, correct? Room 247? The bills must be crushing. Fifteen thousand pounds a month for her treatment." The blood drained from my face. "How do you.." "I own the building." Those four words destroyed my world. I sank back into the chair, my legs suddenly made of water. "What do you want?" The words barely made it past my lips. He returned to his desk, pulled out a contract thick as a book. "You're going to restore my collection. You're going to work exclusively for me. And you're going to help me understand why your father had to destroy mine." "I told you, my father is dead." "Your father is in Wandsworth Prison, serving fifteen years for fraud. Though he got off easy, considering." His smile was as sharp as winter. "My father killed himself because of what you did." The room spun. Mom had lied. All these years, she'd lied. The man who read me bedtime stories, who taught me to see beauty in paintings, was alive. And he was a criminal. "I don't believe you." Alexander pulled out another photo. A newspaper clipping. The headline screamed: "ASHFORD TESTIFIES AGAINST BUSINESS PARTNER IN FRAUD TRIAL." The photo showed a man being led away in handcuffs. Even twenty years older, I recognized the eyes. My eyes. "Still don't believe me?" Alexander's voice turned soft, which was somehow worse than the hardness. "Sign the contract, Ms. Vale. Or your mother loses her room tomorrow." I looked at the contract through blurry eyes. The number at the bottom made me gasp. More money than I'd ever seen. Enough to pay for Mom's treatment for years. But the clauses... exclusive employment, non-disclosure agreements, living arrangements to be determined by employer. "This is imprisonment," I whispered. "This is justice." He held out a pen that probably cost more than my month's rent. "Your father took everything from me. Now I'm taking you." I reached for the pen, my hand steady despite the earthquake in my chest. As I signed my name, Alexander's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and his controlled mask slipped for just a second. Fear flickered across his face. "What is it?" I asked. He showed me the screen. A message with no sender: "She's not the only secret Victor left behind." Alexander's eyes met mine, and for the first time, I saw something other than cold control. I saw terror.