"I will bury you deep into the ground if you ever mention that name again."
Victoria growled the words, her eyes blown wide with hate as she stepped closer to Elena. The room seemed to shrink around them.
Elena didn't move. Didn't blink.
She simply stared back at her.
It was enough. She knew better than to push her over the edge—at least not tonight.
She had already seen it now—the truth she had been circling all night. Laura wasn't just a name. It was a wound. A deep one. And Victoria would kill to keep it buried.
Elena knew better than to push her any further. Not when the woman standing in front of her looked like she might actually follow through.
"Watch your back, girl," Victoria said coldly. "You've messed with the wrong person."
Then she turned sharply and stormed out of the room, the door slamming behind her with a force that rattled the walls.
Elena let out a slow breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. Her shoulders sagged as the tension drained from her body, replaced by a restless, buzzing unease.
----
The night passed in fragments. Elena barely slept. She lay on her bed, phone glowing in the darkness, scrolling endlessly. Article after article. Old interviews. Society pages. Charity events. Anything with the Armstrong name attached to it.
Especially Victoria.
But it was all useless. Nothing new. Everything online was surface-level—facts. The same facts Elena already knew. Victoria Armstrong, respected patron of the arts. Owner of a prestigious art gallery. Socialite. Philanthropist.
Nothing real. Nothing deep.
Still, Elena's mind lingered on the art gallery. People worked there. Artists. Assistants. Staff. If Victoria's secrets didn't live online—they must surely live in whispers or gossip, Right?
Maybe she could pay a visit to the gallery and see if she could find anything useful.
She filed the thought away.
Morning came too fast.
A sharp knock echoed through the room.
Elena groaned softly, rolling onto her side. She considered ignoring it, pretending she wasn't awake. But the knock came again—polite but persistent.
She sighed and pushed herself out of bed, padding barefoot across the room to open the door.
A maid stood outside, perfectly composed, holding a silver tray. The rich aroma hit Elena immediately.
"Good morning, ma'am," the maid said pleasantly. "I brought your breakfast."
On the tray sat fluffy scrambled eggs flecked with herbs, crisp strips of bacon, golden toast stacked neatly beside a small dish of butter and strawberry jam. There was a bowl of fresh fruit—berries, melon, sliced kiwi—and a porcelain cup filled with steaming tea, a curl of lemon resting on the saucer.
It looked perfect.
"Thank you," Elena said, forcing a polite smile as she took the tray.
The maid nodded and walked away. Elena shut the door and leaned against it for a moment before carrying the tray to the bedside table. She stared at the food, appetite dulled by suspicion.
Was it safe to eat?
She exhaled slowly. Paranoia wouldn't help her survive here. Still, she didn't touch it.
Another knock sounded.
Elena frowned. She set the tray aside and went to the door again.
This time, Harper stood there.
She was dressed in expensive denim, a fitted jacket slung over her shoulder, white sneakers spotless. Sunglasses perched on her head like an accessory rather than a necessity. She looked effortlessly put together, energetic—too energetic for someone who had witnessed last night's chaos.
"Good," Harper said briskly. "You're awake."
She didn't wait for an invitation. She stepped inside, practically brushing past Elena.
"Good morning to you too, Harper," Elena said dryly, rolling her eyes as she shut the door.
Harper turned, already surveying the room. "Quick. Take a shower, get dressed, and meet outside in ten minutes. We're going shopping."
"Shopping?" Elena repeated, confused. "I have suitcases packed with clothes if you're worried about that."
Harper scoffed. "First of all, you can never have too many clothes. Second, I'm not taking you random shopping—we're shopping for cute white tennis outfits."
Elena blinked. "What?"
"Ugh," Harper groaned. "Keep up, will you? Today is the Armstrongs versus the Wilsons monthly tennis match."
"Oh," Elena said slowly still clearly confused.
"The Wilsons are insanely rich," Harper continued, pacing as she talked. "Almost as rich as us. The families go back centuries. Grandma started this stupid tradition—once a month, we play tennis like we're all best friends."
"So…some kind of forced bonding," Elena murmured.
"Exactly," Harper said. "But I actually like this one. It's one of the only things she makes us do that doesn't completely suck."
Elena hesitated before speaking again. "Speaking of your grandmother… is she okay? After what happened at dinner."
Harper paused.
She sucked in a breath and shrugged. "She's probably forgotten about it already. Her condition, you know."
Elena nodded, though unease crawled up her spine.
She hesitated again, then pushed her luck. "Can I ask who Laura is? Your grandma was screaming that name last night."
Harper snorted. "I have no idea. Grandma says crazy things all the time. None of it makes sense."
She waved a hand dismissively. "Once she told me I was going to die before her."
Harper laughed, shaking her head. "Like her old ass is going to live longer than me."
Elena forced a small smile, though the answer sat wrong in her chest.
"Anyway," Harper said, already heading for the door, "hurry the hell up and stop asking stupid questions. You need to get ready."
The door closed behind her.
Elena stood alone again, the silence heavy.
Her gaze drifted back to the untouched breakfast.
Laura was not just a name.
And that Victoria's reaction had proved it.
Something was buried in this family—and Elena was getting dangerously close to digging it up.
But for now, she pushed everything aside and forced herself to be fine—for Harper.
She closed her eyes briefly, already dreading how the day would unfold.
Nothing too eventful, she hoped.