My husband took me to his company’s luxury gala in Miami / Chapter 21 / 52

Chapter 21 - The Fall of the Sovereign

The air inside the ancient sea caves beneath Dunraven Keep was frigid and heavy with the scent of salt and damp moss. Armed with suppressed handguns and night-vision gear, Arthur and I ascended the winding stone staircase that led directly into the castle's private library.

Above us, the muffled sounds of gunfire and flashbangs echoed through the castle corridors—Julian and Maxwell’s strike team were systematically neutralizing Vance’s security forces in the main halls.

Arthur pushed open the concealed bookcase door, stepping into the massive, wood-paneled library.

Sitting behind a heavy oak desk illuminated only by the dying embers of a stone fireplace was Lord Alistair Vance.

He looked haggard, his aristocratic poise completely shattered. A glass of single-malt scotch rested near his trembling hand, and an open leather briefcase stuffed with bearer bonds sat beside a snub-nosed revolver on the desk.

"Arthur," Vance rasped, his voice hollow as he stared at the ghost he had spent six years trying to create. "I should have known that cursed plane didn't burn hot enough to kill you."

"Alistair," Arthur replied, stepping forward with his weapon lowered at his side. "You were my closest friend at Oxford. I gave you twenty percent of Sterling Global when your family estate went bankrupt thirty years ago."

Vance’s eyes flared with bitter resentment as he looked from Arthur to me. "You gave me *crumbs*, Arthur! I was always the second shadow behind the great Arthur Sterling! And then you groomed this little girl to inherit everything, passing over me, passing over the men who built the British financial district!"

"You didn't build anything, Vance," I spoke up, stepping out from behind my father, holding up the flash drive from Geneva. "You stole. You laundered. You used Jonathan Cross and Ethan to poison my marriage and siphon billions from our public trusts. And you tried to kill my father."

Vance gave a dark, rasping chuckle. "Ethan was a pathetic, greedy little worm. He thought he was playing chess, but he was nothing more than a disposable pawn. Just like Jonathan Cross. But you, Claire... I admit, I underestimated you. You played the dutiful, wounded wife in Miami brilliantly."

"I wasn't playing, Vance," I said coldly. "I was waiting."

Vance’s gaze darted toward the revolver resting beside his scotch glass. "Do you really think taking me down restores the Sterling empire? The syndicate has roots in Tokyo, in Frankfurt, in New York! You cut off one head, three more will rise!"