Chapter 9
The fluorescent lighting of the federal holding facility hummed with an irritating, high-pitched frequency that grated on Julian’s frayed nerves. The cinderblock walls were painted a dull, institutional gray, smelling faintly of industrial disinfectant and stale coffee. Julian sat alone in the stark interrogation booth, staring through the thick pane of reinforced glass at the empty metal chair on the other side.
The heavy steel door clicked open, and Eleanor Sterling was escorted in by two armed federal guards. She wore a standard-issue orange jumpsuit, yet she carried herself with the terrifying, unyielding arrogance of a woman who still believed she held all the cards. Her silver hair was slightly disheveled, but her sharp, predatory eyes remained fixed on Julian through the glass before she even took a seat.
Eleanor sat down slowly, her chained hands clanking against the metal table as she adjusted her posture. She picked up the wall-mounted audio receiver, and a moment later, the red light on Julian’s side flickered on, transmitting her raspy, confident voice through the built-in speaker.
“You look terrible, Julian,” Eleanor began without a hint of remorse, offering a cold, thin-lipped smirk. “Running a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate all by yourself is a bit heavier than holding a sofa pillow, isn’t it?”
“Spare me the theatrics, Eleanor,” Julian replied, his voice hard, low, and devoid of any emotion. “Your lawyer failed to secure bail. Your offshore accounts are frozen, and the SEC has every digital signature traced back to your private terminal. You have nothing left.”
Eleanor let out a short, dry laugh that sounded like dry leaves scraping across concrete. “You are remarkably naive, Julian. You think I was the top of this food chain? You think a simple executive vice president has the authority to orchestrate a forty-two-million-dollar siphon without political cover?”
Julian’s eyes narrowed. He leaned closer to the glass. “Who are you talking about?”
“The person who handpicked Celeste from the modeling agency. The person who funded her fake pregnancy boutique bills using personal family trust accounts,” Eleanor leaned forward, pressing her chained hands against the glass as if she wanted her words to physically strike him. “It was Arthur Vance. Your own beloved uncle.”
The name hit Julian like a physical blow to the chest. Arthur Vance—the patriarch emeritus, the man who had raised Julian after his parents passed away, the revered founder who held the golden keys to the Vanguard dynasty.
“You’re lying,” Julian said instantly, though his voice lacked conviction. “Uncle Arthur retired five years ago. He has nothing to do with day-to-day operations.”
“He didn't need day-to-day operations; he had me executing his master plan from the inside,” Eleanor hissed, her eyes gleaming with manic triumph. “He wanted to take the company private, liquidate the real estate portfolio, and cash out before the market correction. And you, dear nephew, were the useful idiot standing in the way of his retirement fund.”
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Before Julian could process the horrifying scale of the betrayal, the metal door behind him swung open violently, and Clara stepped into the interrogation booth, her expression carved out of stone.
“She’s not lying, Julian,” Clara said softly, holding up a certified bank wire transfer bearing Arthur Vance’s personal signature, dated just hours before the centennial gala.
