Chapter 18 - Across the Atlantic
Within forty-eight hours of reading Richard’s letter, Emily and Daniel boarded a private charter flight bound directly for London. She hadn't told Arthur about the new threat; the old man had suffered enough, and until she knew whether Richard’s frantic claims were a legitimate legal nightmare or the desperate hallucinations of a broken criminal, she would carry the weight alone.
The damp, grey fog of London hung heavily over the cobblestone streets of Kensington as their black cab navigated the historic avenues. According to the archived records and shipping manifests found in Richard’s dossier, the descendants of Thomas Sterling—the disinherited branch of the family—had lived in relative obscurity in the British capital for decades, running a modest antique restoration business near the Thames.
The cab pulled up in front of a narrow, three-story brick building with a faded wooden sign hanging above the door: *Sterling & Vance Antiquities*.
Emily adjusted the collar of her wool trench coat, her heart hammering against her ribs with a cadence she hadn't felt since that fateful Christmas night ten years ago. She pushed open the door, a small brass bell chiming overhead, releasing the rich, nostalgic scent of aged mahogany, beeswax, and old paper.
An elderly man with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses looked up from a workbench where he was meticulously repairing the leg of an eighteenth-century writing desk. He wiped his hands on a cloth apron and smiled politely.
"Good afternoon," the man said with a distinct British accent, though his facial features bore an unmistakable, haunting resemblance to the Sterling family line. "Welcome to Sterling & Vance. Can I help you find something specific, or are you just browsing?"
Emily stepped further into the warm, cluttered shop, her eyes scanning the shelves filled with rare books, pocket watches, and oil paintings. She took a deep breath, stepping right up to the workbench.
"I’m looking for someone who carries the name Sterling," Emily said clearly, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of the shop. "Specifically, the descendants of Thomas Sterling."
The elderly man’s hands froze on the polishing cloth. He slowly raised his head, his sharp blue eyes locking onto Emily’s dark, piercing gaze. The silence in the shop stretched for several seconds, heavy with decades of unspoken history, geographical distance, and family betrayal.
"You have Arthur’s eyes," the man said softly, without a hint of surprise, as if he had been expecting this knock on his door for thirty years. "And your mother’s stubborn posture."
May you like
Emily didn't blink. "You know who I am."
"I am Jonathan Sterling," the old man replied, setting his cloth down on the workbench. "Thomas Sterling’s grandson. And I take it, Miss Sterling, you didn't fly all the way across the Atlantic just to browse through our antique clocks."
