That night Elena remained retreated in her room, finally summoning the butler as the clock struck twelve.
The "ignorant bastard," as she had branded him, was jolted awake by a heavy, relentless knocking on his door in the middle of the night. He was given no time to argue before being escorted off the grounds toward the nearest train station. Upon his departure, the butler delivered a final, frigid message:
“My humble gatherings are not a suitable environment for a figure of your specific interests. Please refrain from further contact with me or my professional partners.”
Elena’s original draft had been humiliating and jagged, but Alistair had quietly intercepted the butler on his way to the guest wing. He had made secret changes to the letter, softening the insults into a polite yet final wall of silence.
While Alistair’s edits spared the man’s immediate feelings, the consequences remained absolute. Losing access to Elena was a blow, but her "partners" included the most influential publishing houses and magazines in the country. By morning, the man's name would be blacklisted across the industry, his bridges burned with no hope of redemption.
Skipping her post-lunch nap, Elena left the yacht. Her feet met the pavement in soft, rhythmic taps as she delved deeper into the city, a strange sense of peace engulfing her. She walked without stopping, moving with the restless energy of a sailor who had been at sea for months but knew their time on land was fleeting. She felt like someone savoring the melancholy of spring, wondering how many more seasons were left in a life that flowed far too fast.
By the time she returned to the harbor in the evening, her feet ached. The artists would soon return to the yacht to prepare for the night.
A few minutes later, Elena stepped out of the harbor master’s office, the heavy door clicking shut behind her with a final, mechanical thud. In her hand, she gripped a large white envelope, the paper feeling unnaturally heavy. It was stamped in bold red ink with the words REGISTERED MAIL .
Her eyes lingered for a second on the return address in the top left corner: Spencer & Associates . The address was from the city where she primarily resided, a place hours away by train.
The fact that she had requested this delivery to a random harbor master’s office hinted at the document’s volatility; it was an urgent matter that couldn’t wait the few days it would take for her to return home.
With a smooth, unhurried motion, she slid the envelope into a heavy-duty manila folder. She was meticulous, shielding the source of the envelope from anyone other than herself. She tucked the folder tightly under her arm, the stiff cardboard biting into her side as she began her trek back toward the harbor.
As she approached the edge of the docks, she stopped near a small newspaper stand where a young boy was dozing in a wooden chair, his head propped up by a tired hand.
Her gaze softened, though her grip on the folder remained white-knuckled.
“Excuse me,” she said.
She had to repeat herself twice before the boy blinked his eyes open, staring at her with a flash of annoyance. “Can you break a bill for the phone?” she asked.
The boy sighed, reaching for the pouch at his waist. “You have to buy a newspaper first,” he muttered.
“No need,” she replied.
He started to raise his head, likely prepared to send her away, but he stopped short. Held in her hand was a crisp paper bill—a denomination rarely seen on these docks. As he mentally calculated if he even had enough change to break it, he stammered, “You... you still have to take a paper.”
Elena smiled warmly, the same soft smile she usually reserved only for Alistair. “I meant there's no need for me to take the paper. I just need a few coins. You can keep the rest.”
The boy watched her with a suspicious, wide-eyed look as she turned away. The coins clinked between her fingers as she walked toward the nearby booth.
The folding door moved inward with a metallic screech, trapping her in a glass box that smelled of stale tobacco. Outside, the yacht sat as a silhouette of polished wood and a mocking reminder of the luxury she ignored. Rather than making the call from the comfort of her cabin, she stood willingly in the cramped, airless space. It gave her the illusion of standing alone in the world, after enduring the scramble through the crowd and the sickening touch of coins
She lifted the heavy black handset and listened to the thick, mechanical thrum of the dial tone. She fed the coins into the slot one by one, watching them vanish with a rhythmic ping-thud that vibrated through the metal casing. Finally, she pulled the brass-rimmed wheel clockwise, her finger catching on the metal stop. She let it go, watching the dial spin back as she called a number from memory.
The line clicked, and the gravelly voice of an old man came through the receiver.
"Spencer speaking."
The fact that she had reached the attorney directly, bypassing his entire secretarial team, spoke of a long-standing and deeply private business relationship. She didn't just have his office number; she had his private line number.
"Hello. This is Elena," she said, her voice dropping to a low murmur. She sounded clearly annoyed, the fatigue of the long walk and her missed afternoon nap bleeding into her tone. "I’ve already received the document. Did you manage to file the original with the probate court successfully?"
"Yes," Spencer replied, his tone as dry as parchment. "It was handled this morning. As for the old one, I am maintaining a memo of destruction here at the firm. Everything is clear."
"Did you keep a copy as I asked?" Elena’s voice was steady.
On the other end, Spencer’s voice finally betrayed a hint of emotion. He sighed, a weary sound that crackled over the line. "Yes. It’s in my personal safe. Elena... have you truly thought this through?"
"Yes," she replied, her tone flat and unchanging. "You just have to do as you’re told."
"I see you as my own daughter," he answered, his voice thick with a sudden, heavy regret.
Elena didn’t hesitate; she shot back instantly, the words like ice. "I wish I could say the same, but it only brings back bad memories just to see your face."
She trailed off into silence, her gaze drifting outside the glass of the booth. She let him talk, his voice becoming a distant drone that didn't penetrate her mind.
“...and I can’t help but wonder if anything would have been different if I was—”
A flash of bright, defiant red in the distant crowd snapped her back to her senses. Her focus sharpened instantly. She shifted the receiver to the hand holding the manila folder, using her free hand to lift the binoculars hanging around her neck.
"If only," she interrupted him, her voice cold. "the past can be changed, Spencer. Don’t let me down. Goodbye."
She hung up without waiting for a response and threw open the folding glass door. Her eyes remained intensely focused on the woman in the red dress currently boarding the yacht. Elena began to walk fast, her stride predatory as she mumbled under her breath, "That lizard better not dare..."