Chapter 4
The heavy front doors remained propped open as Arthur Vance stepped into the grand foyer of the estate. At seventy years old, his silver hair was neatly combed, and his dark overcoat was damp from the lingering drizzle outside. Despite his age, his posture was as straight as a soldier’s, and his sharp blue eyes scanned the opulent marble hall with undisguised disdain. He had warned Clara against marrying Julian five years ago, predicting the younger man’s ruthless ambition would eventually turn destructive. Clara had ignored the warning, blinded by a youthful idealism that Julian had systematically crushed beneath his heel. Now, standing at the foot of the staircase in her torn shirt and bruised skin, Clara met her father’s gaze across the marble floor.
Arthur did not speak immediately. He walked toward her with slow, measured steps, his cane tapping rhythmically against the stone. When he reached her, he raised one trembling, age-spotted hand and gently touched her unbruised cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray lock of dark hair.
“You stayed too long, Clara,” Arthur murmured, his voice thick with a mixture of sorrow and suppressed fury.
“I had to make sure the trap was inescapable, Dad,” Clara replied softly, leaning into his touch for a fraction of a second before stepping back.
From the open doorway of the formal dining room, Julian was led out in handcuffs by two federal agents. His black button-down shirt was wrinkled, and his hair was disheveled. The arrogant confidence that had defined him for a decade was entirely gone, replaced by a sullen, desperate glare. As he passed Arthur and Clara, Julian stopped, his eyes locking onto the older man with venomous hatred.
“You think this is over?” Julian spat out, straining against the cuffs. “Your company is tied to these assets, Arthur. You’ll go down with me.”
Arthur did not even blink. He turned his head slowly to look at Julian as if observing a particularly unpleasant insect on a clean floor. “Julian, I spent forty years building Vance Global from the ground up. I know every brick in the foundation, and I know every parasite that tried to burrow into the walls. You were just a tenant who forgot his place.”
Julian lunged forward, but the agents quickly restrained him, pushing him toward the waiting transport vehicle outside. The heavy oak doors swung shut behind them, cutting off the sound of Julian’s muffled curses.
Elena was brought out shortly afterward, escorted by a female officer. Her red dress was stained with spilled champagne near the hem, and her face was pale and tear-streaked. She looked at Clara with a desperate plea in her eyes, but Clara simply turned her head away, offering neither pity nor malice. Elena was merely a symptom of a larger disease, a willing accomplice who had traded her integrity for proximity to power.
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Once the foyer was quiet again, Arthur turned back to his daughter. “The private jet is waiting at the airfield. A medical team is on standby at the estate in Vermont. You need a doctor, Clara, and you need rest.”
“Not yet, Dad,” Clara said, walking toward the green velvet sofa where Elena had been sitting earlier. She picked up the abandoned crystal champagne flute, examining the bubbles still clinging to the glass. “We have a board meeting at nine o’clock this morning. And I intend to chair it.”
