Chapter 4 - Parallax
The gala hall was no longer a cathedral of excess; it was a tomb of stale champagne and cold shoulders. The crystal chandeliers that had once shimmered like a sea of diamonds now hung low, casting long, accusing shadows over the catering staff. Anika moved through the crowd, a phantom in her black uniform, her eyes scanning for empty trays.
The air was thick with the hum of gossip. She heard it before she saw them—the servers in the kitchen, heads bowed in conspiratorial whispers.
"...he actually came back..."
"...she shoved him right into the fountain..."
"...sterling's face turned purple..."
Anika clenched her jaw, gripping the heavy silver tray until her knuckles turned white. She was the viral sensation, the "Defender of the Elderly," but here, in the trenches, she was just the girl who got fired. She navigated the punchbowl, the red wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim, and placed a glass on a passing waiter’s hand. He flinched, pulling away as if she were contagious. "Careful, Anika," he muttered, a sneer playing on his lips. "Don't let your ego trip you up."
She ignored him, her focus fixed on the exit. She needed to get away from the eyes that felt like physical pressure against her skin.
She ducked into the service corridor, the air here smelling of lemon polish and desperation. She pulled her phone from her apron pocket. It buzzed incessantly. The screen lit up with a notification from Marcus: “Call me. Now.”
She hesitated, then swiped to answer. "Marcus?"
"Anika, I found it. I found the connection."
His voice was frantic, vibrating with a frantic energy that matched the pounding in her chest. "Found what? You found the photo?"
"I found the ledger. I found the entry from '84. The year the Sterling fortune shifted. It wasn't a stock buyback. It was a liquidation of assets from the Jones family." Marcus paused, his breath hitching. "Anika, I found a name. A name that matches the man in the photo. His name was Silas."
Anika’s breath hitched. "Silas?"
"Listen to me, I need to talk to Sam. Is he there?"
"He's resting. Why do you need to talk to him?"
"I need to tell him I found the proof. I need to know if he knew about the settlement." The line went dead.
Anika stared at the dead screen, the word Sterling echoing in her mind. The money. The house. The history. It all felt like a house of cards, but the wind was picking up.
***
The penthouse was a sanctuary of cold marble and controlled lighting. The air here was filtered, sterile, smelling of expensive sandalwood and expensive lies.
Edward Sterling sat across from her at a low table, his posture perfect, his tie loosened just enough to suggest vulnerability. He poured two glasses of red wine, his movements deliberate and practiced. "To the future," he said, sliding one glass toward her. "I wanted to thank you for seeing me. Most people would have just walked away."
Anika took the glass but didn't drink. She looked around the room, at the panoramic view of the city lights that looked like a million unblinking eyes. "I didn't walk away, Mr. Sterling. I was fired."
"You were 'let go' of a role, not your livelihood. My PR team is handling the narrative. We are presenting a story of redemption. A story of a family that learned a lesson." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. They were dark, calculating pools. "I wanted to invite you here because I believe in second chances. I believe that the Sterling name should stand for something more than just a viral video."
Anika felt a bead of sweat trickle down her spine. The "redemption" narrative was suffocating. "I appreciate the gesture, but I'm not interested in your charity, Edward. I just want my life back."
"Is that so?" He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You’re a fighter, Anika. I respect that. You remind me of my father."
Anika stiffened. "I don't think I'm like anyone here."
"No, you're different." Edward took a sip of his wine, his eyes fixed on the liquid. "My father was a good man, but he was... fragile. He struggled with a progressive illness for years. It was a slow, agonizing decline. He fought it with quiet dignity, but eventually, it broke him. It took him from me before he ever really got to see what we built." He looked up at her, his expression strangely open, almost mournful. "It’s a heavy burden to carry a legacy when the foundation is cracking."
He spoke with such conviction, such raw emotion, that Anika’s skepticism flickered for a fraction of a second. *Progressive illness.* Quiet dignity. It sounded like a man who had grieved deeply.
But then her phone buzzed in her pocket again. She ignored it, focusing on Edward. "I'm sorry about your father. That must have been hard."
"It was," Edward said. "But we survived. We always survive."
The vibration in her pocket grew insistent, vibrating against her thigh like a trapped bee. Anika sighed, reaching for her phone. She didn't want to be rude, but she needed to know if Sam was okay. She pulled the device out, intending to check the screen, but as she lifted it, she caught a glimpse of the caller ID.
It was Sam.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. "Sam? Are you okay?"
Silence on the other end. Just the sound of breathing. Heavy, ragged breathing.
"Sam?" She stood up, knocking her chair back. "Speak to me."
"Anika..." His voice was weak, raspy. "I... I had a dream."
Anika moved to the balcony door, stepping out into the cool night air. "About what? About the gala?"
"No..." His voice was distant, as if he were far away. "About the past. About a man. A man with a face like mine, but older. He was standing in a factory. He was laughing. He looked happy. And he was next to... next to a Sterling."
Anika froze. The wind whipped around her, cold and sharp. "A Sterling? Which one?"
"I don't know... but he had a name. I remember the name. It was written on a paper in my hand."
"Sam, tell me the name!" Anika shouted into the phone, the glass door rattling in its frame.
"Silas," he whispered, the word hanging in the air like a shroud. "His name was Silas."
Anika dropped her phone. It clattered against the floor-to-ceiling glass, but she didn't reach for it.
Edward stood up slowly, his face a mask of confusion and alarm. "Anika? What is it? What’s wrong?"
Anika stared at him, the realization crashing over her like a physical blow. The "progressive illness." The timeline. The sudden rise of the Sterling fortune in the eighties. The man in the photo.
May you like
She looked at Edward, really looked at him, and saw the ghost of a man who had died years ago. The story he had just told her—a story of a fragile father dying of a long illness—wasn't the truth. It was a fabrication.
The realization twisted her stomach into knots. Her uncle hadn't died of a broken heart or a bad heart. He had been erased. And her father had known. And now, sitting across from her, in a penthouse that was likely built on the ashes of that erased man, was the man who had held the matches.
