Chapter 22 - The Midnight Audit
The security guards finally pinned Victoria’s arms back, dragging her struggling and cursing toward the exit as she screamed empty threats about her lawyers, her friends in high places, and a nonexistent alliance with the district attorney. When the heavy oak doors slammed shut behind her, sealing off her frantic shrieks, the rotunda returned to a profound, almost sacred silence.
Arthur Vance let out a long, shuddering breath, leaning heavily on his cane. "She never understood the craft," the old man murmured, shaking his head. "She thought heritage was something you bought with a black card, something you could flash at a charity gala. She never understood that a true tapestry is built thread by thread, through patience, suffering, and unbreakable love."
He turned his piercing blue eyes back to me. "The private jet is fueled at Logan, Clara. The board of the Scottish mills is waiting for your digital signature to ratify the transfer of power. But before you sign... there is one room in the Inverness estate that hasn't been opened since your grandmother disappeared."
"What’s in the room?" I asked, feeling a strange prickle of apprehension at the base of my neck.
"The ledger," Arthur said softly. "The real one. The one that proves why your sister’s branch of the family fought so desperately to keep you away from the loom in the first place."
An hour later, David, Chloe, and I were in the back of a sleek, black town car gliding silently through the wet, neon-lit streets of Boston toward the private aviation terminal. Chloe had fallen asleep against my shoulder, her small hand still clutching a loose end of the crimson silk thread Arthur had gifted her. The city blurred past us in streaks of gold and crimson—colors that felt less like city lights and more like the palette of the great loom waiting for us across the ocean.
"Penny for your thoughts?" David asked, his hand sliding over mine on the leather seat. He looked tired, the dark circles under his eyes a testament to the brutal legal battles we had fought side by side over the past six months, but there was an unmistakable spark of victory in his expression.
"I’m just thinking about how fragile everything is," I confessed, resting my head against his shoulder. "Six months ago, I was just a divorced mother trying to pay rent, keep my freelance design work afloat, and teach my daughter how to sew because we couldn't afford store-bought clothes. And now... we’re flying to Scotland to take over an international textile empire because my sister couldn't resist the urge to throw away a handmade baby blanket."
David laughed, a rich, warm sound that filled the cabin. "Never underestimate the destructive power of a narcissist with an inferiority complex, babe. Victoria’s arrogance was our greatest weapon."
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When we arrived at the private hangar, a sleek Gulfstream bearing the Vance-Sturbridge crest stood waiting on the tarmac, its turbine engines humming a low, steady bass note. Standing at the foot of the boarding stairs was a tall, impeccably dressed woman with sharp silver hair and an expression of absolute, unyielding authority.
"Clara Vance," the woman said, stepping forward as we descended from the car. "I am Margaret Sterling, chief legal counsel for the Scottish trust. We have less than twelve hours before the international markets open in London. If we don't file the deed of accession before the bell, the corporate raiders your sister secretly partnered with will attempt a hostile takeover of the Inverness mills."
