Chapter 18: The Countdown

Elena’s POV

The heavy wood of my bedroom door clicks shut, locking out the freezing corridors of the West Wing. The quiet inside my suite rushes over me like cold water. My legs give out, and I slide down against the door, collapsing onto the floorboards.

I rip the white silk gloves from my hands. My palms are slick with sweat, my fingers trembling so violently that the gloves slip from my grasp and fall onto the rug.

My phone lies blank in my lap. I stare at the dark screen, but my father’s cruel words stay stuck in my head like a nightmare. Monday morning. The bank will freeze everything. The hospital will turn off her machines.

I drag my gaze to the tall window. Outside, the London fog is thick and grey, swallowing the neglected gardens below. The clock in my head ticks louder. Today is Friday afternoon. That means I have less than three days before the weekend ends. Less than three days before Monday arrives.

"I cannot wait for him to sign on his own timeline," I whisper. My voice sounds small, fragile, swallowed by the vast emptiness of the room.

Alexander is too smart, and he is watching my habits like a hawk, dissecting every twitch, every pause. If I try to beg him or force him to sign again, his suspicion will grow, and he will look even closer at my face. I cannot risk him discovering that I am Elena, the broke florist, instead of Alyssa.

I push myself up from the floor and walk over to the small wooden desk near the corner of my bed. My phone feels heavy in my hand as I open the browser. I type in the private portal link for my online flower shop, BrightPath Blooms.

The dashboard loads. Numbers flicker across the screen — small, pitiful numbers.

“Twenty‑five pounds… forty pounds… twelve pounds…” I murmur, each line dragging me deeper into despair.

Chloe is trying. My eighteen‑year‑old assistant sweeps the floors, waters the plants, wraps grocery bouquets for walk‑ins. But she cannot book luxury ballroom events or design grand floral displays for the wealthy. Without those corporate checks, the shop is bleeding out.

I need thousands of pounds each week to keep my grandmother's machines alive. The boutique is barely scraping rent. My flower shop cannot save us.

I set the phone down on the desk, pressing my forehead against my bare palms. Panic tightens around my throat like a rope. I am completely trapped. If Alexander does not put his pen on those bank papers before Monday, my father will pull the funding, and my grandmother will die.

A knock breaks the silence.

I jolt upright, heart slamming against my ribs. I shove my hands back into Alyssa’s gloves, smooth my green dress, and paste her proud, arrogant mask over my face.

"Come in," I call out, forcing my voice to sound high, sharp, and annoyed.

The heavy double doors swing open. Harris enters, carrying a polished silver tray with a fresh pot of hot tea and a clean porcelain cup. His face is perfectly blank, and his white gloves match mine.

"Your afternoon tea, Mrs. Sterling," Harris says politely, his quiet voice echoing off the walls. He sets the tray down on the coffee table near the emerald sofa.

"Thank you, Harris," I reply, keeping my pitch cold and careless to match my sister's routine. "You may leave."

He bows slightly, but he does not turn around right away. He lingers. His gaze drifts to the windows, then back to my gloved hands.

“Mr. Sterling has left the estate for a global corporate meeting in the city,” Harris announces smoothly. “He will not return until very late tonight. If you wish to visit the greenhouse conservatory, the western grounds are clear.”

Alexander is gone. The beast has left the house. The knot in my stomach loosens.

"I understand," I snap, waving my gloved hand to dismiss him. "That will be all."

He bows again and exits the room. The click of the doors echoes like a signal.

I rise instantly. My mind races. A dangerous thought takes root.

Alexander is out of the house. The East Wing is forbidden, but empty. His private office waits in the dark. If I can sneak back over there right now while the servants are busy with chores, I can look at that computer tablet on his desk. If the bank codes are already loaded on the screen, maybe I can find a way to press the digital signature myself and save my father's company.

It is reckless. He warned me he destroys liars. But my grandmother is running out of time. Doing nothing will kill her anyway.

I press my ear against the door, listening to the silence of the hallway. My breath shakes. My hand grips the brass handle.

I turn the brass handle. The latch clicks.

I slip into the dark corridor. Silence presses against me like a warning. Every shadow whispers danger with every step.