Chapter 7
Julian drove downtown through the bustling morning traffic, his expression impassive behind the wheel of his sedan. He wore a crisp charcoal suit now, having discarded the symbolic white tuxedo of the previous night. He parked outside Marcus’s prestigious glass-and-steel law firm on Madison Avenue, stepping out with purposeful, measured strides.
The security guards at the front desk recognized him immediately from previous social events, nodding respectfully as Julian bypassed the visitor log and headed straight for the private elevator bank. He didn’t announce his arrival. He rode the car to the forty-second floor, stepping out into the minimalist, white-marbled reception area.
“Mr. Vance is currently in a deposition,” the receptionist said, her fingers pausing over her keyboard as Julian approached her desk.
“Tell him Julian St. Clair is here to discuss his wedding bill,” Julian replied smoothly, his voice carrying an undeniable authority that made the receptionist hesitate. Before she could pick up the intercom, Julian walked past her and pushed open the frosted glass doors leading to the private partner offices.
He found Marcus sitting behind a massive walnut desk, reviewing a stack of documents with an associate. Marcus looked up, annoyance flashing across his features as the door swung open.
“Julian. You clearly don't understand professional boundaries,” Marcus said, motioning for the associate to leave the room. The junior lawyer scrambled out, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Julian walked over, placing both palms flat on the walnut desk and leaning in. The restraint in his posture was absolute, but his eyes burned with an icy intensity.
“Your little text message this morning was cute, Marcus,” Julian said quietly, his voice dropping an octave. “But threatening an infant to cover up corporate wire fraud is a federal offense. I hope you enjoy the prospect of federal prison, because the audit logs from your shell company are already sitting on a federal prosecutor's desk.”
Marcus’s composure flickered for a fraction of a second, a micro-expression of genuine panic crossing his eyes before he quickly masked it with a cynical smile. “You’re bluffing, Julian. Grief-stricken grooms often make wild accusations.”
“Check your secure server right now, Marcus,” Julian countered, standing upright and adjusting his cuffs. “The timestamp proves your IP address accessed my network while I was recovering from surgery at St. Jude’s Hospital. Elena’s biometric key authorized the transfer. You didn't just forge a signature; you left a digital fingerprint that federal investigators wet their pants over.”
Marcus slowly leaned back in his leather chair, his pen clicking rhythmically against the desk. The confident facade was wearing thin, replaced by the cold calculus of a cornered predator.
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“Even if you have logs, Julian, litigation takes years,” Marcus said softly. “During which time your reputation is dragged through the mud, your assets remain frozen, and the child’s legal status remains in limbo. Elena holds all the cards regarding the baby’s birth certificate. You can’t fight custody without admitting you had no legal right to bring the child home in the first place.”
Julian didn't blink. He held Marcus’s gaze, realizing the attorney was right about one thing: the legal system moved slowly. But Julian had no intention of playing a long, drawn-out legal game. He was going to cut the head off the snake directly.
