Chapter 14 - The Fracture in the Family
Three hundred miles north, in a glass-walled penthouse overlooking the gray expanse of Lake Superior in Duluth, Julian Vance paced the length of the hardwood floor like a caged animal. His expensive Italian leather shoes clicked furiously against the grain. His phone was pressed hard against his ear, his knuckles glowing white.
"Pick up, damn you," Julian muttered, his voice cracking with a hysteria he hadn't felt since he was a terrified child standing before his grandfather.
"The number you have dialed is either out of service or—"
Julian hurled the phone across the room. It smashed against a modernist chrome sculpture, shattering into glittering shards across the floor. He dropped his face into his hands, his chest heaving. The transfer was irreversible. The adaptive sports foundation—Evelyn’s newly minted weapon—now held fifty-one percent of Vance Industries' voting shares. The board of directors had already begun emergency text messaging chains, their panic bleeding through corporate Slack channels that Julian could no longer access.
He was locked out. The CEO title, the private jets, the penthouse suites, the untouchable status—gone in less than ten minutes because of an old woman in a wheelchair whom he had tried to drown in an icy lake.
A sharp knock at the penthouse door made him jump.
Julian spun around, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Who is it?" he demanded, his voice thin and desperate.
"Mr. Vance?" a muffled voice called from the hallway. "Federal marshals. Open the door."
Julian’s blood ran ice-cold. He backed away, his eyes darting toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. There was no escape. The building was surrounded. As the heavy oak door splintered inward under the force of a battering ram, Julian collapsed to his knees, his mind finally grasping the terrifying magnitude of what his mother had unleashed.
Meanwhile, back in the Hennepin County holding facility, Derek Vance was pacing his narrow concrete cell. The fluorescent lights hummed a maddening, high-pitched tune. His lawyer had promised him that Julian was pulling the strings, that bail would be set at a million dollars, and that he’d be home by dinner, sipping scotch by the fireplace.
The heavy steel door clanked open. A guard in a crisp navy uniform stepped inside, holding a clipboard.
"Vance, D. You've got a visitor," the guard said flatly.
Derek’s face lit up with a desperate, arrogant grin. He adjusted his wrinkled collar, stepping forward with an air of expected entitlement. "I told you. Julian took care of it, didn't he? Where is he? Is my car waiting?"
The guard didn't smile. He stepped aside, and a woman in a sharp charcoal suit walked into the cell. It wasn't Julian. It was Victoria Vance—Julian’s mother by marriage, and a formidable corporate raider in her own right, who had previously stayed neutral in the family civil war.
Derek stopped dead in his tracks. "Aunt Victoria? Where’s Julian?"
Victoria looked at Derek with a gaze so devoid of warmth it felt like a physical blow. She didn't sit down; she remained standing, looking down her nose at her nephew.
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"Julian is currently being processed by federal agents in Duluth," Victoria said, her voice completely chilling in its detachment. "And you, Derek, are entirely on your own."
***
