Chapter 7
While Arthur drowned in his mounting panic at the estate, Martha Vance was not sitting idly by. Seated in the plush leather interior of her chauffeured town car, she dialed a direct line to Arthur’s former legal counsel, a man named Harrison Vance—a distant cousin whose loyalty belonged solely to the family name, not to corporate ethics.
"Harrison," Martha commanded the moment the phone was answered. "I need you to bypass the standard litigation protocols. I want an emergency injunction filed in the county court by sunrise."
"On what grounds, Aunt Martha?" Harrison’s voice sounded hesitant over the cellular connection. "Clara holds the primary trust deed. Every judge in this district respects the validity of executed asset transfers unless we can prove explicit coercion."
"Coercion?" Martha scoffed, her fingers tightening around her handbag. "She isolated my son, manipulated his signature under false pretenses during a vulnerable marital dispute, and now she’s conspiring with our fiercest corporate rival, Eleanor Sterling. If that isn't undue influence, I don't know what is. Fabricate whatever affidavits you need from the domestic staff. I want her removed from this property by force if necessary."
"Martha, that’s dangerously close to suborning perjury," Harrison warned, lowering his voice. "If this blows back on us, the bar association will disbar me, and the board will wipe out our remaining partnership shares."
"If we don't act now, there won't be a partnership left to protect!" Martha hissed, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Arthur is a broken man, and Marcus is panicking. I am the only one left with the stomach to fight this war. File the papers, Harrison. I’ll handle the rest."
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She hung up the phone before he could argue further. Martha looked out the tinted window of the car as it pulled through the wrought-iron gates of the estate. She adjusted her maroon blazer, her mind racing with calculated malice. She had built this dynasty alongside her late husband, brick by brick, social elite by social elite. She would not allow an unassuming former forensic auditor in a gray coat to tear down forty years of social dominance in a single weekend.
When the town car parked in the circular drive, Martha stepped out with practiced elegance, marching up the front steps as if she still owned every square inch of the earth beneath her feet. She pushed open the heavy front doors, expecting to find Clara cowering in the kitchen or packing her bags. Instead, the foyer was dead silent.
