A cold, sickening dread pool formed in the pit of my stomach.
“What did you just say?” I asked, every muscle in my body locking up.
“You heard me,” she spat, her voice laced with ancient bitterness. “You sent your family’s attorney to my room the day after I found out I was pregnant. He handed me an envelope from your mother’s trust, told me you were engaged to Serena Vance, and said that if I ever tried to bring a scandal to the Mercer name, you would use every judge in New York to destroy me.”
“I never sent an attorney,” I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. “I never signed a note. I never left you money.”
Elena let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Do you really expect me to believe that?”
“Elena, look at me!” I stepped right up to the island, gripping the edge of the stone. “Six years ago, I came home to our apartment and found it empty. My mother showed me a signed lease termination and a bank transfer. She told me you took two hundred thousand dollars from the Mercer foundation and moved to London with your ex-boyfriend. She told me you aborted the baby!”
Elena went dead still. The color drained from her face so fast I thought she was going to faint.
“She… she told you I aborted them?” Elena whispered.
“I spent three months drinking myself to death in a hotel in Paris because I thought the woman I loved destroyed our child and walked away for cash!” My chest heaved as six years of buried grief exploded to the surface. “I didn’t propose to Serena Vance for six years because every time I looked at a ring, I saw you!”
Elena stared at me, her lips trembling. The six-year wall of hatred and betrayal between us began to crack, exposing the terrifying truth underneath.
Before she could speak, my phone rang again. Not my personal cell—the emergency line linked to the penthouse security panel at the front desk.
I tapped the screen. The doorman’s voice came through, strained and nervous.
“Mr. Mercer… I’m so sorry to bother you, sir. But your mother, Mrs. Eleanor Mercer, is downstairs. She has two private security guards with her, and she’s demanding access to your unit.”
PART 3
I looked at Elena. The panic in her eyes returned instantly, instinctual and sharp. She looked toward the sofa where Luke and Logan were sleeping, moving to stand between the hallway and her children.
“Julian… don’t let her near them,” Elena whispered, her voice shaking. “Please.”
“She will never touch them,” I said.
I tapped the doorman’s intercom. “Send her up alone. Tell her security stays in the lobby, or I’ll have the NYPD clear the building.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ninety seconds later, the private elevator chimed.
The doors slid open, and Eleanor Mercer stepped into the foyer.
She was immaculate, as she always was. A double-breasted cream cashmere coat, a strand of Mikimoto pearls, her silver-blonde hair coiffed into a flawless chignon. She looked like old New York royalty—a woman who spent her life bending reality to fit her desires.
“Julian,” she began, her tone a masterclass in controlled maternal disappointment. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done tonight? The Vance family is sitting in the Conservatory. The press is outside. Serena is in tears, and Arthur Vance is threatening to pull his firm’s investment from our European expansion—”
Her voice cut off mid-sentence.
She had walked past the entryway, her eyes sweeping over the marble kitchen—and landing directly on Elena.
Eleanor’s mask slipped for a fraction of a second. A flicker of sheer, unadulterated venom flashed across her features before she smoothed it over with icy contempt.
“You,” Eleanor breathed softly. “I wondered what kind of cheap distraction could cause my son to lose his mind on the most important night of his life.”
“Hello, Mrs. Mercer,” Elena said coldly, standing her ground.
Eleanor turned to me, offering a tragic, pitying sigh. “Julian, darling. I see what’s happening here. She found out about the announcement. She tracked you down, didn’t she? She’s looking for another payout. I warned you six years ago about women of her background—”
“Where is Richard Sterling?” I interrupted, my voice dangerously quiet.
Eleanor blinked. “What?”
“Richard Sterling,” I repeated, stepping into her line of sight. “Our family’s former senior counsel. The man who retired suddenly to Florida six years ago. Where is he?”
Eleanor straightened her posture. “He retired, Julian. What does a retired lawyer have to do with your ruined engagement?”
“He went to Elena’s hospital room,” I said, watching her face like a hawk. “He handed her an envelope. He told her I was marrying Serena Vance, and he threatened to ruin her if she ever contacted me again.”
Eleanor didn’t flinch. She was too refined for that. But her fingers tightened around the handle of her Hermès handbag.
“That is a desperate lie from a woman who abandoned you,” Eleanor said smoothly. “She took two hundred thousand dollars from our foundation account, Julian. I showed you the wire transfer myself.”
“You showed me a wire transfer to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands,” I said. “An account Richard Sterling managed for the Mercer estate.”
I pulled my personal tablet from my suit jacket, unlocked it, and pulled up my private banking ledger.
“I was twenty-six when Elena left, Mother. I was grieving, broken, and stupid enough to believe you,” I continued, stepping right into her personal space. “But I’m thirty-two now. I’ve run Mercer International for four years. Do you know what I did three years ago when I started suspecting Richard Sterling’s retirement was funded a little too generously?”
