Chapter 42 - The Siren’s Ultimatum
"Evelyn!" I screamed, lunging to the railing.
The black waves swallowed everything. Powerful naval spotlights swept across the foaming wake behind the mega-yacht, but there was nothing—only the turbulent, freezing water of the deep Mediterranean.
French naval commandos swarmed the upper deck within seconds, their weapons drawn, shouting commands in rapid French. Ethan immediately placed his weapon on the deck, raising his hands, while shouting the designated diplomatic clearance protocol Arthur had embedded into my emergency dossier.
"Identifiant: Sterling Sovereign Zero! Diplomatic protection under Whitehall Annex Nine!" Ethan roared.
The French commander lowered his weapon instantly, checking an encrypted tactical tablet strapped to his forearm. He looked at me, taking in my disheveled hair, the torn silk coat, and the cold, unyielding fire in my eyes.
"Madame Sterling?" the commander asked, saluting crisply. "We have orders to escort you directly to the American embassy in Paris. The entire vessel is under our control. The council members have been detained."
"Did you spot her?" I demanded, pointing toward the churning water. "A woman went overboard! Did the search boats see her?!"
The commander spoke rapidly into his tactical radio, waiting for the dive team's report. Ten long seconds ticked by.
"Negative, Madame," the commander said, looking up with a frown. "Our sonar detected a private submersible leaving the vessel's moonpool four minutes ago. It escaped our perimeter before we established the blockade."
My breath locked in my throat.
She didn't jump to die.
She jumped to escape. The entire theatrical exit had been a calculated extraction maneuver to board a sub already waiting beneath the hull.
Three hours later, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket inside the secure admiral's cabin of the French flagship heading toward Marseille, I sat staring at the sunrise breaking over the horizon. The global news feeds on the television monitor were already erupting with catastrophic breaking headlines: *Massive Global Banking Lockdown*, *Unprecedented Sanctions Freeze Sovereign Hedge Funds*, *Billionaire Cartel Exposed in Mediterranean Raid*.
The Sterling empire was safe. Julian Vance was crushed. The Obsidian Council’s financial juggernaut had been shattered by my own hands. I had avenged Arthur.
Then, the secure encrypted satellite phone on the table—the one given to me by the French commander, supposed to be completely unhackable and monitored exclusively by Allied intelligence—began to ring.
Ethan and I exchanged a tense, electrified look.
I reached out, my fingers steady this time, and pressed the speaker button.
A familiar voice filtered through the speaker. It was not Evelyn.
It was a young man’s voice, smooth, impeccably polished, speaking with an aristocratic British cadence that carried a chilling, mocking familiarity.
"Well played, sister," the voice murmured softly through the speaker. "Mother always said you were the clever one. But while you were busy playing the hero on *The Leviathan*, who do you think took control of the real Sterling vault in Manhattan?"
My heart stopped.
"Who is this?" I breathed, the blood draining from my face.
May you like
A low, melodic chuckle answered me as the line began to dissolve into static.
"See you at the reading of the real will, Claire. You have forty-eight hours to return to New York... before I sell everything our father ever bled for."
