Chapter 7
The sun barely crested the horizon when Julian’s study transformed into a war room. Papers were strewn across every available surface—bank statements, notarized affidavits, flight logs, and corporate registration filings printed on heavy bond paper. Marcus paced the Persian rug, dictating notes into a digital recorder while Julian pored over a handwritten ledger belonging to Elena’s former personal assistant, a woman named Sarah Jenkins who had been fired abruptly six months ago.
"If Sarah Jenkins is willing to testify that Elena forged that proxy signature in the Cayman Islands," Marcus said, stopping his pacing, "we can invalidate the entire probate claim before Holloway even opens the hearing."
"Where is she?" Julian asked, his eyes scanning a highlighted address in suburban Boston.
"Living off the grid under her maiden name. She’s terrified of Elena’s legal team. They threatened her with federal perjury charges if she ever spoke about the Vanguard restructuring."
Julian closed the ledger with a sharp snap. "I'll go get her."
"Julian, you can't just drive to Boston and kidnap a witness," Marcus warned, holding up a hand. "It has to be done through official deposition subpoenas."
"Official subpoenas take a week, Marcus. Holloway hears the injunction motion at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. If we don't have Sarah in that courtroom with a signed affidavit of forgery, we lose the house, the land, and any legal leverage we have left over the custody agreement." Julian grabbed his wool overcoat from the mahogany coat rack. "Look after the boys. Clara knows not to open the door for anyone."
Before Marcus could protest, Julian was out the door. The drive to Boston was a blur of gray asphalt, roaring truck engines, and the relentless ticking of the dashboard clock. Every mile felt like an eternity, the weight of his family’s future pressing down on his shoulders with crushing gravity.
By mid-afternoon, Julian’s sedan pulled into the quiet, modest driveway of a pale blue colonial house in a leafy suburb north of Boston. The neighborhood was peaceful, contrasting sharply with the corporate warfare raging back in the city. Julian cut the engine, stepped out onto the damp pavement, and walked up the paved walkway. He rang the doorbell once, then twice.
A heavy oak door swung open a few inches, held fast by a brass security chain. A woman in her late thirties with tired eyes and flour-dusted hands peered out at him.
"Ms. Jenkins?" Julian asked softly.
May you like
The woman’s face drained of color. She tried to slam the door, but Julian placed his hand firmly against the wood.
"I'm not Elena Vance," Julian said, holding up both hands, palms open. "My name is Julian Vance. And I need your help to stop her once and for all."
