Chapter 3: The Viper at the Dinner Table**
The next evening, dinner at Vance Manor felt like a staged execution. At the head of the banquet table sat Raymond Vance, Julian’s uncle—a silver-haired man whose warm smile never reached his predatory eyes. Beside him was Victoria, Raymond’s daughter, adorned in diamonds that screamed stolen wealth.
"Julian, dear nephew," Raymond toasted, raising a crystal glass of red wine. "I was delighted to hear from the staff that young Clara has adjusted so well to nursing your... limitations."
Clara sat beside Julian, feeling the heavy gaze of the staff on her back. Under the table, Julian’s hand brushed her knee—a quiet warning to remain composed.
"Clara is more than capable, Uncle," Julian said, his voice carrying the faint, practiced fatigue of a sick man. "She gives me peace in this quiet house."
Victoria chuckled cruelly, cutting into her steak. "Peace is cheap, Julian. But running the Vance Shipping Empire isn't. The board meets next Friday. If you can't even attend the shareholder gala on your own two feet, maybe it’s time to sign over your remaining voting proxies to Father."
Clara couldn't contain her indignation. "Mr. Vance may have physical struggles, Victoria, but his mind founded half the patents your lifestyle relies on. A chair doesn't define a leader."
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The dining room went dead silent. Raymond’s fork paused in mid-air. He looked at Clara, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. "Careful, little nurse," Raymond warned softly. "Protecting a sinking ship often means drowning with it."
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