Chapter 3
Morning sunlight cut sharply through the vertical blinds of the Beacon Hill mansion, illuminating dust motes dancing above the ruined remains of the anniversary cake. The catering staff had cleared away the broken crystal and wiped down the mahogany table hours ago, leaving behind a sterile, empty expanse of wood. Julian sat alone at the same table, a cold cup of black coffee untouched at his elbow. He hadn’t slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard the click of the front door latching shut and saw the cold, unblinking determination in Clara’s eyes.
His cell phone buzzed against the wood, startling him. It was a message from his chief financial officer, a frantic text asking why corporate accounts had been suddenly frozen by a federal subpoena. Julian didn’t reply. He knew exactly why. Clara hadn’t just threatened to go to the police; she had already set the machinery in motion before she even walked into the dining room for the anniversary party. The envelope with the round sticker wasn't a bluff—it was the receipt from the county clerk’s office confirming her formal request for historical corporate registry disclosures.
Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway, and Beatrice strode into the room. She was wearing a silk bathrobe, her hair still unbrushed, her face pale with a mixture of hangover and lingering fury.
"Julian, where is she?" Beatrice demanded, pulling out a chair and sitting down unceremoniously. "And more importantly, why is my phone blowing up with calls from the board of directors? They’re saying the Sterling accounts are locked!"
Julian slowly lifted his head, his dark eyes bloodshot and hollow. "She’s gone, Beatrice. And because you couldn't control your temper at the dinner table, she didn't just leave—she took everything."
"Me? You’re blaming me?" Beatrice scoffed, leaning forward with her hands flat on the table. "I merely pointed out the obvious! That woman has lived in our shadow for five years, acting like she owns the place, while you did all the heavy lifting—"
"Shut up!" Julian yelled, slamming his palm against the table with a force that made the coffee cup rattle.
Beatrice flinched, genuinely surprised by the raw violence in his voice. Julian rarely lost his temper in private; his weapon of choice was always calculated manipulation, not outbursts.
"She had the audit report, Beatrice," Julian whispered hoarsely, staring down at his coffee. "She had the bank records from the Cayman transfers. She’s had them for weeks, probably. She was just waiting for the right moment to strike. And you walked right into her trap by picking a fight with her in front of fifty VIPs."
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Beatrice swallowed hard, the color draining entirely from her face. "What are we going to do?"
"We are going to survive," Julian said, standing up and straightening his wrinkled suit jacket. "Or at least, I am. You’re on your own."
