Chapter 3 - THE PHOTOGRAPH IN THE WATCH
The name David Thorne sucked the remaining air out of the dining room.
Teresa Hale let out a sharp, devastated gasp. She gripped the edge of the mahogany table, her knuckles stark white against the dark wood. “David? That monster is behind this?”
Rosalind’s eyes darted frantically toward the hallway, looking for an exit, but Vincent stepped into her path, blocking her completely.
“Answer me, Rosalind,” Vincent demanded. His voice was no longer a shout; it was a quiet, concentrated fury. “How do you know David Thorne? And why is his company taking ownership of my family’s land?”
Rosalind swallowed hard, her elegant composure shattering like cheap glass.
“He… he reached out to me, Vincent,” she stammered, twisting her diamond engagement ring nervously. “He heard about your financial troubles. He told me he felt terrible about what happened with your father. He said he wanted to make amends by bailing the restaurant out.”
“Make amends?” Vincent repeated, a bitter, humorless laugh escaping his chest. “David Thorne doesn’t make amends. He makes victims. He stole my father’s retirement fund and disappeared to Europe.”
“People change!” Rosalind pleaded, stepping closer to him, her eyes wide and innocent. “Vincent, he offered a lifeline! The bank is going to lock the doors on Friday! What else was I supposed to do? Let you lose everything your parents built because of your stupid pride?”
Vincent stared at her, the betrayal sinking deep into his bones. “You lied to my mother. You hid her glasses so she couldn’t read the transfer. You stole her signature. That isn’t a lifeline, Rosalind. That’s a hostile takeover.”
“I was protecting our future!” she screamed, her voice echoing shrilly through the house.
“You were protecting your own interests,” Teresa said coldly. The older woman stood up, ignoring her shaking knees. She looked at Rosalind with absolute disgust. “You don’t care about the restaurant. You just want the safety of the Hale name before your own family’s debts catch up with you.”
Rosalind whipped her head toward Teresa, her eyes flashing with venom. “Shut up, you pathetic old bat! You’re living in the past! This restaurant is bleeding money, and your son is too weak to save it!”
Vincent’s jaw locked. He reached out, grabbed Rosalind gently but firmly by the elbow, and guided her toward the front hallway.
“We are done here, Rosalind,” Vincent said, his voice devoid of any emotion. “Pack whatever fits in your overnight bag. I want you out of this house in ten minutes. I’ll have my lawyer contact Thorne Holdings in the morning to invalidate the signature.”
Rosalind yanked her arm out of his grasp. “You can’t invalidate it, Vincent! It’s already been notarized by my father! The transfer is legal! The land belongs to David now!”
Vincent froze, but before he could react, a small, quiet voice broke the tension.
“Mr. Vincent?”
Everyone turned toward the hallway.
My seven-year-old daughter, Mia, was standing just outside the dining room archway. Her bare feet shifted nervously on the cold marble floor. She was holding something small and metallic against her chest.
“Mia,” I gasped, rushing over to her. “Baby, I told you to stay in the hallway.”
“I know, Mommy, I’m sorry,” Mia whispered, tears welling in her big brown eyes. She looked up at Vincent, who had immediately softened his posture so as not to frighten her.
“It’s okay, Mia,” Vincent said gently, stepping away from Rosalind. “What do you have there?”
Mia slowly held out her small hands.
Resting on her palms was a heavy, vintage silver pocket watch. The silver casing was tarnished, intricately engraved with a crest of a culinary knife crossing a stalk of wheat.
Teresa gasped, pressing a hand to her heart. “That’s… that’s Arthur’s watch. My husband’s watch. He lost that years ago.”
“Where did you find this, sweetheart?” Vincent asked, crouching down to be at eye level with my daughter.
Mia sniffled. “I was hiding in the coat closet when the yelling started. I bumped into the lady’s red coat. The watch fell out of the pocket.”
Mia pointed a tiny finger directly at Rosalind.
Rosalind’s face went bone-white. She lunged forward to grab it. “Give me that, you little brat!”
Vincent stood up instantly, blocking her with his broad shoulders. He gently took the watch from Mia’s hands.
“Why was my father’s pocket watch in your coat, Rosalind?” Vincent asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
“I… I found it at an antique shop,” Rosalind stammered, backing away, sweat beading on her forehead. “I was going to give it to you as a wedding gift.”
“Liar,” Teresa spat. “Arthur never pawned that watch. He said it was stolen from his office the week before he died.”
Vincent stared at the heavy silver timepiece. He knew the intricate clasp mechanism. He pressed his thumb against the hidden latch at the bottom.
With a soft click, the front casing of the watch popped open.
But there was no clock face inside. The gears had been removed long ago.
Instead, tucked neatly inside the circular casing, was a small, faded photograph.
Vincent stared at the picture. His breathing stopped. The color drained from his face entirely, leaving him looking like a ghost.
“Vincent?” Teresa asked, stepping forward, terrified by his reaction. “What is it?”
Vincent didn’t speak. His hands were shaking so violently that the silver chain rattled against the casing.
He slowly turned the watch around so his mother and I could see the photograph.
It was a picture of two people, laughing, standing on a beach.
One was a much younger Rosalind, looking genuinely happy.
The man holding her, with his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, was David Thorne.
“You said he reached out to you recently,” Vincent whispered, his voice cracking with a devastation that broke my heart.
He looked at Rosalind, the woman he had shared a bed with for two years.
“But this picture is at least ten years old,” Vincent said.
Rosalind didn’t try to lie anymore. The panic melted away, replaced by a cold, calculating sneer that made her look like a complete stranger.
“You’re right, Vincent,” Rosalind said, lifting her chin. “David didn’t reach out to me recently.”
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She took a step toward the front door, slipping on her designer coat.
“He never had to reach out,” Rosalind said, looking directly into Vincent’s shattered eyes. “Because David Thorne isn’t just a business partner. He’s my older brother.”
