Chapter 8 - Breaking News
Richard’s grip on the telephone receiver tightened until his knuckles turned white. The ambient hum of the refrigerator seemed to roar in his ears as Marcus’s words hung suspended in the air.
"What about Clara?" Richard demanded, his voice dropping into a register of cold, absolute dread.
"She didn't make it to the main gate, sir," Marcus rushed out, the sound of wind and sirens bleeding through the secure radio line. "A black sedan intercepted her at the private road intersection about five minutes after she left the porch. They forced her into the back and headed south toward the old industrial district."
Elena, who had been leaning against the kitchen counter in a state of shock, suddenly jerked upright. "A black sedan? That’s impossible. My people—" She stopped abruptly, biting her lower lip as the blood drained entirely from her face.
Richard slowly lowered the phone, his eyes locking onto his wife with a lethal intensity that made her shrink back against the cabinets. "Your people?" he asked, his voice barely audible. "What people, Elena?"
"Nobody," she stammered, her eyes darting toward the back exit. "I don't know anything about a sedan."
"You hired someone to follow her," Richard said, taking a step forward, his towering frame blocking her only escape route. "You didn't just want her out of the house; you wanted her discredited permanently before she could talk to anyone about the trust fund."
"I wanted her gone!" Elena screamed, the veneer of sophistication shattering completely into hysterical tears. "She was ruining everything! Every time I looked at her, I remembered the woman you brought into our bed twenty years ago! I had to protect what was mine!"
Richard didn't flinch. He reached out, grabbed Elena by the silk collar of her shirt, and dragged her toward the kitchen television mounted on the wall. With his free hand, he grabbed the remote and clicked the power button.
The screen flickered from a cooking show to a live helicopter shot broadcasting from the outskirts of the city. A convoy of police cruisers was surrounding a deserted warehouse near the old harbor district. Flashing red and blue lights painted the gray concrete walls in frantic streaks.
"Breaking news," the anchor's voice droned over the footage. "Authorities have surrounded a commercial warehouse following an anonymous tip regarding a high-profile kidnapping. Sources confirm the victim is an eighteen-year-old female matching the description of Clara Vance, daughter of prominent billionaire Richard Vance."
Clara’s black handbag was shown in a close-up shot, lying abandoned on the wet asphalt outside the warehouse doors, its contents spilled across the ground—including the broken silver laptop and a photograph that made Richard’s heart stop cold.
It was a photograph of a woman with red hair—not Elena, but a younger woman with striking green eyes and a familiar, defiant smile—holding a newborn baby wrapped in a hospital blanket.
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On the back of the photograph, written in bold, permanent marker, were words that shattered Richard’s entire reality: She was never your daughter, Richard. She belongs to your brother.
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