Chapter 7
The harsh overhead lights of the east wing guest suite hummed softly, casting a clinical glare over the opulent room that had hosted decades of high-society guests. Now, it looked like a staging ground for a hasty evacuation. Drawers hung open, revealing empty velvet-lined jewelry trays and scattered clothing that had been tossed aside in a frantic scramble. Julian stood near the king-sized bed, aggressively shoving expensive designer suits into a leather garment bag while muttering frantic curses under his breath. His phone was gone, confiscated by Vance’s thugs down in the service drive, and the bitter reality of his total isolation was finally setting in.
The door pushed open quietly, and Margaret walked into the room, her face tear-stained and pale. She locked the heavy wooden door behind her, leaning her back against it as if trying to hold back an oncoming tide.
"She called them," Margaret whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the overhead lights. "The police. Evelyn didn't just lock the accounts—she sent the entire forensic audit straight to the state troopers. They're already on their way here. We don't have hours; we have minutes."
Julian stopped mid-motion, a silk jacket clutched tightly in his fist. He stared at his wife with wide, bloodshot eyes, the last remnants of his arrogant composure shattering completely. "She wouldn't. She’s bluffing. She’s an old woman who loves her comfort too much to scandalize the family name in public!"
"She isn't bluffing, Julian!" Margaret snapped, her voice rising in a sharp, desperate panic as she crossed the room and grabbed his arm. "I saw her eyes when she spoke to me in the library. She is completely cold, completely finished with us. The condo is gone, the accounts are zeroed out, and Vance’s men are sitting right outside waiting to collect their debt or hand us over to the authorities. We have to get out through the service stairwell right now."
Julian threw the jacket onto the bed in frustration, running both hands through his disheveled dark hair. "And go where? Every credit card I own was declined five minutes ago when I tried to book a private flight. We have nothing left in our personal names. Everything was tied to the trust, and Evelyn pulled the plug on the entire grid."
"We take my mother’s old car parked in the lower garage," Margaret said urgently, pulling a set of heavy brass keys from her pocket. "It’s an older model, untracked by the digital system Evelyn controls. We can drive across the state line before dawn and figure something out."
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"You think Evelyn didn't already lock the garage doors?" Julian muttered bitterly, walking slowly toward the window to peer through the heavy velvet drapes. Down below, on the moonlit service drive, the sleek black sedan of Victor Vance’s men sat motionless, their dark silhouettes visible inside the cabin like silent predators waiting for the trap to spring shut.
***
