Page 59 of Conquer
Chapter Eighteen
The weight of his statement casts a pall over the entire mood of our impromptu trip. I’m at a loss for words, truly unsure of what to say.
Not that anything I could voice would be able to penetrate the cloud of unease hanging over Vadim. It’s so heavy I feel as though if I reach out to touch him, I’ll feel an invisible barrier barring my path—his wall, rebuilt higher than ever.
Hiram, his mentor, and father figure who entrusted his business to him…Thatman had somehow written a note that wound up on Magdalene the day she arrived at the crisis center. A crisis center primarily funded by said company.
It’s almost too convoluted a web to unravel all at once.
And Vadim especially seems perplexed by this new twist in the puzzle that is Magdalene’s past. By the time we’re nearly an hour into our drive, he finally speaks.
“I knew there were things he never told me,” he says gruffly. “I’m not a fool. But this… Did he plan this with that bitch? Goad me to take in Magdalene for his own gain?” His voice trembles, coarse with anger, and my heart aches for him. Cracks.
In his mind, such a betrayal makes sense—it’s the only way he’s learned to see the world. Always on the defense. But something tells me that the explanation may not be so simple. Maybe reinforced simply by the fact that a man who would do so much for a young, tormented boy to cross his path—even going so far as to give him his name—wouldn’t be so cruel as to gamble that trust on a reckless whim. Would he?
“He’s probably laughing at me from the grave,” Vadim adds with a harsh, callous scoff. “I’ve still carried his name all this time. I was going to give my daughterhisname.”
He glowers, his hands clenched over the steering wheel, his eyes flashing a vitriol he doesn’t even display toward his brother. All I can do is place my hand on his shoulder and let him rage.
“Is there anything he left you that might give you a clue as to his motives?” I ask, gingerly giving Hiram the benefit of the doubt.
Vadim blinks as if he didn’t think to consider the possibility for himself. “I had most of his estate liquidated,” he explains, raking a hand through his hair repeatedly. “But some personal effects I had shipped to the city and placed in storage. I never had the heart to go through them.”
“So let’s do it now,” I suggest, hoping I sound braver than I feel. “Together.”
He eyes me warily, and I see the faintest hint of his wall starting to splinter. I feel so attuned to him in this moment, I swear I’m reading his mind. Once again, he’s grappling with his decision to trust me. Hiram supposedly betrayed him, am I next?
I meet his gaze unflinchingly, hoping that whatever he finds gives him enough reassurance to trust me. At least for now.
After a few tense seconds, he sighs and steers the car onto an off-ramp heading toward Fair Haven. Sensing the need to remain silent, I let him stew for nearly the entire drive.
It’s only when we arrive before a prestigious bank in the heart of the city that I manage to blurt, “So this is where billionaires get all those fancy limitless cards from.”
My awe is quickly tempered, however, when Vadim exits the car, stone-faced, and reaches back for me. Together, we enter a minimally designed lobby where a teller guides us to a private room supposedly designed to store personal effects.
As we wait on leather loungers, the woman returns with a few small items balanced on a silver tray.
“Take all the time you need,” she explains as she sets the tray onto a wooden table before us.
The second she’s gone, I sit forward and eagerly peruse each object. There isn’t much—perhaps Vadim’s ruthless minimalism isn’t a trait he picked up on his own, but one he learned from Hiram? A leather-bound journal, a gold-set watch on a leather band, and finally, a black metal lockbox make up the bulk of his few personal effects.
The last item draws my interest the most, but I sit back as Vadim takes his time inspecting the arrangement. Finally, he reaches out, fingering the watch first.
“He told me once, he’d leave this to me,” he says, more to himself than to anyone else. Sighing, he turns his attention to the notebook, warily flipping through the first few pages. With a pained expression, he sets it aside and then finally opens the lockbox.
I find myself leaning forward, eagerly peering within—only to frown in confusion. Hiram Gorgoshev cherished few things in life, it seems. A small stack of documents, and a selection of glossy snapshots tied together with a delicate strip of ribbon. But not just any photos.
I recognize the little girl staring plaintively from the topmost one—so does Vadim. He snatches the entire stack and spreads them out over the table, his expression increasingly constricted. Magda stars in every last one, spanning at least most, if not her entire short lifespan. A wide-eyed, stoic baby. A blankly staring toddler. A presumably five-year-old girl photographed without flashing so much as a smile.
Vadim lifts that one, his hand shaking so badly. It slips through his grasp and lands face-down, revealing a slash of cruelly elegant script written on the back:Proud of your creation?Every picture sports some variation of a message, each one seemingly more mocking than the last.
So innocent. So perfect. How many such well-bred creatures did you deny the world when you grew a soul, Hiram?
Do you see his face? I do. What would he say?
And finally…
Do you deny she’s a result of your ‘research?’ Flawed, like everything you touch.
