Her Curated Vengeance

Chapter5

　　My fingers traced the business card, feeling its stiff texture and cool surface. I picked up my phone—its glow illuminated my still-pallid face, but the bruise on my jaw stood out like a grotesque badge of shame... or maybe a battle scar.

My thumb hovered over the call button, trembling violently. Every second stretched into eternity. Fear and exhaustion threatened to drag me back to the floor. Then images flashed through my mind: those blister-packed pills, medical reports screaming "UNKNOWN ETIOLOGY," Maya’s furious pounding like some avenging fury...

The thought hit me like ice water, freezing all hesitation. No more weakness. No more waiting. No more being the victim.

With desperate finality, I slammed my thumb down.

The dial tone pulsed—each beeeephammered against my frayed nerves like a courtroom countdown. I white-knuckled the phone while the paper bag weighed heavy on my lap—a sack holding my personal hell... and maybe the key to payback.

After several rings, a crisp female voice answered:

"Vivian Sterling Law Offices, Emily speaking. How may I direct your call?"

My throat felt sandpapered raw. I managed a ragged gasp.

"Hello? Is anyone there?" Professional puzzlement edged her voice.

I forced a swallow, wrenching out gravelly words:

"I... I'm Eleanor Ashcroft. Maya Rodriguez... gave me Ms. Sterling's card. I need—urgently—to speak with Ms. Sterling. About divorce and..." Terror choked the unspeakable suspicion.

"Mrs. Ashcroft?" Her tone shifted instantly. "Ms. Rodriguez mentioned you might reach out. Let me check Ms. Sterling's calendar..."

A beat later:

"She can take your call now. Hold please."

The hold music mocked me during those suffocating seconds. Sweat-slicked palms nearly dropped the phone.

Then a new voice—sharper, all business:

"Vivian Sterling. Good morning, Mrs. Ashcroft."

"Ms. Sterling... Eleanor Ashcroft. Maya Rodriguez gave me your card." My voice scraped like sandpaper in the dead air of the guest room. The silence on the line vacuumed the oxygen from my lungs, forcing me onward:

"I need your help. My husband... wants a divorce because he says I can't bear children... but..." I took a shuddering breath. "My seven miscarriages... weren't accidents. I believe... he caused them."

Those last words left me gasping—a desperate, trembling accusation hurled into the void.

Silence. Not hesitation—the calculating pause of a strategist assessing fractured evidence. Then that cool, metallic voice sliced back—pure directive, zero emotion:

"Mrs. Ashcroft. Ten AM tomorrow. My office. Bring all original medical records: detailed post-miscarriage reports, every prescription and OTC medication—names, dosages, sourcing. And..." Her pause landed like a hammer blow. "Anything you suspect he tampered with. Don't clean. Don't tell anyone. Understood?"

"Y-yes." The word clawed past my tight throat.

"Address incoming. Be punctual." Click. The line went dead.

Ten o'clock. Sterling Law Offices. Evidence.

My gaze fell on the heavy shopping bag—a seed holding all my pain and hope. Tomorrow, I'd plant it before Vivian Sterling.

Dawn brought London's gloom back. Pallid light seeped through the guest room's sheer curtains, casting weak shadows. I'd barely slept, nerves wire-tight. The shopping bag sat beside Vivian's black card on the nightstand—a silent oath.

Then a soft knock: "Ma'am?" James the butler's voice filtered through the door. "Mr. Ashcroft requests you in the study."

Ice shot through my veins. Does he know? About Vivian? Last night's feeling of being watched returned—cold and invasive. Fear coiled around my heart like a viper. My eyes darted to the shopping bag.

"Ma'am?" James' voice held faint urgency.

"Coming." I forced steadiness into my sleep-rough voice.

Splashing cold water on my face did little for my ghostly pallor. The woman in the mirror looked exhausted... but that icy fire still burned in her eyes.

The study's heavy oak door stood ajar. I pushed inside.

Sebastian sat behind his massive mahogany desk. Morning light sculpted his perfect profile—custom gray suit, top shirt buttons undone revealing his throat. He sipped black coffee while reviewing thick documents, radiating relaxed elegance. Last night's monster might've been a bad dream.

He didn't look up when I entered—just turned a page with those long, tapered fingers. The shhhick of paper echoed in the silence.

I stood frozen—an intruder awaiting sentencing. Coffee and stale cigar smoke hung in the air... along with suffocating pressure. My own heartbeat drummed in my ears.

Finally, he set down his cup. Clink. The porcelain met marble. He lifted his gaze. Behind gold-rimmed glasses, those gray eyes assessed me—not a trace of last night's fury, just glacial detachment.

"Eleanor." His voice stayed smooth, almost politely bland. "Sleep well? Guest room comfortable?"

The false concern stabbed my raw nerves. I pressed my lips tight.

Unfazed, he slid the document stack toward me.

"Since we're ending this marriage,"—his tone brooked no argument—"expediting legalities serves us both." His fingertip tapped the cover page. "Divorce agreement draft. From my legal team. Review it."