Chapter 11
The heavy metal doors of the catering kitchen swung inward, revealing not the grand ballroom they remembered, but a narrow, stark white corridor lined with biometric scanners and digital ticker tapes scrolling stock market quotes in glowing green text.
Julian stepped backward, pulling Clara close to his side. "This wasn't here twenty minutes ago. How did he remodel an entire hallway in the middle of a wedding reception?"
"Modular corporate architecture," Maya said, marching down the center of the white corridor with all the confidence of a seasoned CEO. She swiped her master keycard against the first wall panel, which chimed with a pleasant, high-pitched chime. "Grandfather builds fast. Downtime is a waste of shareholder value."
Clara clutched the gold bar she had taken from the crate, its weight feeling more like a shackle than a treasure. "We aren't going anywhere with you, Maya. This is insane. We’re calling the real police."
Maya stopped, turning around with a look of profound disappointment. "There are no real police, Aunt Clara. Not in this tax bracket. Everyone from the precinct captain to the governor holds shares in Vance Confectionery Holdings. Didn't you read the fine print on the marriage license?"
Julian groaned, rubbing his temples where a splitting headache was rapidly forming. "If I see one more reference to fine print, I’m going to throw myself through that wall."
"That wall is reinforced titanium-alloy," Maya replied helpfully. "You'll just break your shoulder. Come on. The private elevator to the executive tarmac is at the end of the hall. We have a jet waiting."
Julian and Clara exchanged a desperate look. They had no money, no functioning credit cards, no cars outside, and an army of corporate security guards blocking every conventional exit. Their only way out—or deeper into the trap—was to follow a six-year-old flower girl down a subterranean corporate corridor built beneath a wedding venue.
"If we get on that jet," Julian whispered fiercely to Clara, "we’re playing his game on his terms."
"Do we have a choice?" Clara asked bitterly, looking down at her ruined white wedding dress and the gold bar in her hand. "My father holds every key to our past, our bank accounts, and our legal identities. If we don't follow him, we don't exist."
Julian jaw tightened. With a reluctant nod, he grabbed Clara’s hand, and together they followed the little girl in the purple tulle dress down the glowing white corridor.
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The corridor ended abruptly at a massive, circular steel vault door bearing the embossed crest of the Vance Corporation: a pair of crossed pastry whisks over a shield of solid gold. The door hissed open automatically, revealing not a jet, but a cavernous underground subterranean train station bathed in cool blue LED light.
Parked on the tracks was a sleek, bullet-shaped high-speed train emblazoned with the words VANCE EXPRESS: NON-STOP TO INSOLVENCY.
