Chapter 16 - Dinner With MonstersWarren Bellamy’s dining room seated forty.
That night, every chair was full.
Senators. CEOs. Judges. Donors. Museum trustees. People who smiled for cameras while pretending not to smell blood in the room.
Arthur arrived in a black suit with no tie.
A scandalous choice by Bellamy standards.
Victoria arrived five minutes later in a white dress.
The room quieted.
Warren stood at the head of the table.
“My daughter,” he said warmly.
Victoria walked to him.
For one heartbeat, she was a little girl again.
Then Warren kissed her cheek exactly where the bruise had been covered with makeup.
She did not flinch.
Arthur saw the effort it took.
Dinner was theater.
Warren toasted family.
Arthur toasted truth.
Victoria said nothing.
Samuel Reed sat three seats away, watching Arthur like a man measuring a coffin.
Halfway through the second course, Warren raised his glass.
“I believe pain has made us all irrational. Arthur, my daughter wounded you. You wounded her. Children appeared with complicated claims. A sick woman was removed from care. The public loves tragedy.”
Arthur smiled.
“Especially when men like you write it.”
The room chilled.
Warren chuckled.
“You always had fire.”
“My father did too.”
Warren’s eyes hardened.
Victoria rose.
“Excuse me.”
Warren’s gaze snapped to her.
“Sit down.”
The room froze.
Victoria looked at him.
For years, that tone had worked.
Not tonight.
“I need air.”
Arthur stood too.
Warren smiled.
“Arthur, surely you don’t need to accompany my daughter to breathe.”
Arthur looked at Victoria.
She gave the smallest shake of her head.
No.
Trust me.
So Arthur sat.
Victoria left the dining room alone.
Every instinct told him to follow.
Instead, he kept Warren talking.
“Tell me,” Arthur said, loud enough for the table, “how many hospitals does Bellamy Global own now?”
Warren smiled thinly.
“Several.”
“Any with sealed maternity records?”
A fork dropped.
Samuel muttered, “Arthur.”
Arthur ignored him.
Warren leaned back.
“You are embarrassing yourself.”
“No,” Arthur said. “I’m embarrassing you. There’s a difference.”
Upstairs, Victoria entered her childhood bedroom.
Nothing had changed.
Pink walls. White canopy bed. Ballet trophies. A room preserved by servants for a girl who had never been allowed to grow into someone kind.
She crossed to the music box.
It still sat on the shelf.
A porcelain ballerina inside.
Her mother’s favorite song.
Victoria lifted it.
The false bottom opened with pressure beneath the hinge.
Empty.
Victoria’s blood turned cold.
A voice spoke behind her.
“Looking for this?”
Samuel Reed stood in the doorway holding a small brass bank key.
Victoria backed away.
Samuel smiled.
“Your father underestimates sentiment. I never have.”
Downstairs, Arthur’s phone vibrated.
One message from Victoria.
Three words.
Samuel has it.
Arthur stood.
Warren smiled from the head of the table.
“Leaving so soon?”
Arthur looked at him.
“No.”
Then police sirens wailed outside the estate gates.
Warren’s smile faltered.
May you like
Arthur smiled back.
“I brought guests.”
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