Chapter 8
The static on the comms earpiece hissed for several agonizing seconds before a cold, measured laugh crackled through the speaker.
“Lyra, my dear. I always knew you had more backbone than your pathetic mother, but playing revolutionary with your father’s ghost is a very dangerous game.”
Arthur snatched the earpiece from Lyra’s hand, his knuckles turning white. "Marcus. You treacherous bastard. You helped Julian orchestrate the takeover while sitting on my board of directors?"
“Arthur, old friend,” Marcus Vance’s voice purred smoothly from the hidden command vehicle parked just outside the estate's perimeter. “You stayed away in Geneva too long. Empires don't run on sentimentality; they run on blood, debt, and absolute control. You and Lyra were historical footnotes the day your plane went down.”
"A footnote that is currently freezing your corporate assets and handing every offshore wire transfer receipt to the Department of Justice," Arthur countered, his voice steady and venomous. "Your private jet has been grounded at Teterboro, Marcus. The runway is blocked by federal tanks."
The line fell dead silent. The calm, arrogant facade Marcus had maintained for decades finally fractured.
“You think federal tanks can stop a conglomerate that owns three sitting senators?” Marcus snapped, his voice rising in panic. “I'll burn this entire estate to the ground with all of you inside it before I let you hand that ledger to a judge!”
"Try it," Lyra said, leaning into the mic. "The perimeter is wired with remote explosives tied directly to the DOJ mainframe. The moment your backup moves another inch, the evidence goes public to every news outlet in the country."
Lyra ended the transmission by crushing the earpiece beneath the heel of her shoe. She looked up at her father, her eyes blazing with a fierce, unwavering determination. "He's bluffing about burning the house. Marcus is too narcissistic to destroy his own ancestral home. He's coming here personally to recover the ledger."
Arthur nodded, signaling the federal commander. "Seal the perimeter doors. Let him walk right into the ballroom."
Ten minutes later, the heavy oak doors of the grand ballroom swung open once more. Marcus Vance strode inside, flanked by two private bodyguards, his expensive gray overcoat billowing behind him. His eyes darted around the blood-stained floor, lingering for a fraction of a second on Clara’s covered body before locking onto Arthur and Lyra standing by the crystal chandelier.
"This is madness, Arthur," Marcus said, raising his hands in a theatrical gesture of disappointment. "We're family. We could have split Vance Global fifty-fifty."
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"Family?" Arthur stepped forward, his voice a low growl. "You watched Julian torture my daughter for three years, Marcus. You approved every financial squeeze and every humiliation."
Marcus smiled coldly, pulling a gold-plated derringer from his coat pocket and leveling it straight at Lyra's chest. "Sentimentality was your fatal flaw, Arthur. And now, history repeats itself."
