Chapter 7
The air in the county jail visitation room smelled faintly of industrial disinfectant and stale coffee. Behind the reinforced plexiglass partition sat Victoria Sterling. She wore a standard orange jumpsuit that clashed violently with her dark hair and pale complexion, but her posture remained impeccably straight. Her dark lipstick was missing, exposing the natural paleness of her lips, yet her eyes retained their cold, calculating fire. She picked up the heavy plastic telephone receiver with deliberate slowness, looking through the glass at Julian, who stood motionless on the other side.
Julian picked up his own receiver, pressing it tightly against his ear. Neither of them spoke for a long, agonizing moment. They simply studied each other across the divide—the victim and the aggressor, locked in a dance of mutual destruction.
"You look tired, Julian," Victoria said softly, her voice carrying clearly through the intercom speaker. "The grief doesn't suit you. You were always much better at looking prosperous, successful, untouchable."
"You belong here, Victoria," Julian replied, his voice completely devoid of emotion. "Behind this glass, in that jumpsuit. It’s the only place safe for someone like you."
Victoria let out a low, humorless laugh. "You really think this cage can hold me, Julian? Marcus is already filing appeals. The video, as damning as it appears, has vulnerabilities in its chain of custody. Your private security firm used an uncertified cloud server to back up the footage for the first forty-eight seconds. My legal team will tear that evidence to shreds in front of a sympathetic jury."
"The video isn't even the strongest evidence we have anymore," Julian said, watching her expression closely for any sign of cracking.
Victoria’s eyes narrowed slightly, though she maintained her composure. "Is that supposed to frighten me?"
"It should," Julian answered. "When the police executed the search warrant on your townhouse, they didn't just find financial records. They found the medical files. The psychiatric evaluations from your time in Boston five years ago. The ones detailing your fixation on Vance Enterprises and your clinical history of violent delusions regarding my family."
For the first time since the night of the attack, Victoria’s composure fractured. Her fingers tightened around the plastic receiver until her knuckles turned white. A brief flash of panic crossed her face before she ruthlessly forced it down behind her usual mask of arrogant detachment.
"Those records were sealed by a federal judge," she hissed, leaning closer to the glass.
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"Sealed records have a funny way of opening up when a federal murder investigation begins," Julian replied smoothly. "You thought you were playing a game of corporate chess, Victoria. But you didn't realize that the moment you laid hands on Elena, you stepped outside the boardroom entirely. You are facing twenty-five years without parole. No amount of money or legal gymnastics is going to save you."
Victoria stared at him, her chest rising and falling with shallow, angry breaths. The theatrical tears of the penthouse living room were entirely gone, replaced by a raw, unadulterated hatred that needed no words to express. She slammed the receiver back onto its cradle, cutting the connection, and stood up abruptly, marching back toward her cell without looking back once.
