Chapter 6 - The Unraveling of Dr. Vance
The deposition room at Sterling & Thorne was designed to induce claustrophobia in liars.
The walls were gray acoustic paneling, the lighting was crisp and unforgiving, and the long quartz conference table sat directly in front of a high-definition video camera linked to a court stenographer’s console.
Dr. Robert Vance looked like a man who had aged ten years in forty-eight hours.
His silver hair was uncombed, his expensive silk tie was knotted slightly askew, and his hands shook visibly as he gripped a disposable cup of water. Beside him sat his personal defense attorney, a sweating, portly man named Harold Finch, who kept reviewing his notes with mounting panic.
Julian Sterling sat at the head of the table, impeccably calm, radiating the relaxed menace of a tiger toying with a cornered rabbit. I sat to Julian’s right, dressed in a sharp ivory pantsuit, my hands folded calmly over my stomach.
"Let the record reflect," Julian began, his voice cutting through the sterile room, "that this is the continued deposition of Dr. Robert Vance in the matter of *Hensley v. Vance, et al.*, Case Number 4402, Southern District."
Julian leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.
"Dr. Vance, yesterday you testified under oath that the medication labeled *Femodex-B* was a standard follicle-stimulating therapy prescribed to Mrs. Claire Hensley to treat suspected premature ovarian failure. Is that still your testimony?"
Vance cleared his throat, glancing nervously at Finch. "Yes. That... that was my clinical judgment at the time."
"Your clinical judgment," Julian repeated smoothly. He reached down and pulled a thick ledger from his briefcase. "Then perhaps you can explain Exhibit 14-C. This is an encrypted ledger seized from your private Swiss account by federal order this morning."
Finch jumped up. "Objection! Counsel has not provided adequate foundation for foreign financial records!"
"The Department of Justice provided the foundation, Harold," Julian snapped without looking at him. "Sit down before I have the federal marshals outside that door take your client into custody for perjury."
Finch went white and sank back into his chair.
Julian turned the ledger toward Vance.
"Between May 2015 and September 2023, the Diane Ellison Family Foundation transferred thirty-five thousand dollars a month into an offshore holding company registered under your wife's maiden name in the Cayman Islands. A total of four point two million dollars."
Vance began to hyperventilate, his chest heaving under his starched shirt. "Those... those were charitable grants for ovarian cancer research!"
"Really?" Julian raised an eyebrow. "Then why did every single transfer coincide precisely with Claire Hensley’s refill orders for Femodex-B?"
Julian leaned in closer, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet hiss.
"We have the audio recordings, Robert."
Vance froze. The color completely drained from his face, leaving him a ghastly, greenish gray. "What?"
Julian tapped a button on his laptop.
A tinny, digitized recording filled the room. The audio was crystal clear:
*“Make sure the dosage is high enough that she doesn't experience breakthrough bleeding, Robert,”* Diane Ellison’s haughty, aristocratic voice echoed through the speakers. *“Graham is getting impatient. If she has a normal cycle, he might convince her to try another clinic. Keep her convinced her eggs are dead. When Graham’s thirty-fifth birthday passes, I will have the trust restructured, and then he can divorce her for an heir with someone of my choosing.”*
*“It’s dangerous, Diane,”* Vance’s recorded voice replied, trembling with greed. *“Long-term suppression at this level can cause cardiovascular stress, bone density loss—”*
*“You’re getting four hundred thousand a year to manage her symptoms, Robert. Just give her migraine medication and tell her it’s stress. She trusts you like a father. She won't question you.”*
I closed my eyes as the recording played. Hearing it out loud—hearing Diane talk about my body, my health, and my life like I was a piece of livestock to be poisoned for corporate real estate—sent a wave of nausea crashing over me.
Beside me, Julian reached under the table, his hand finding mine and gripping it with fierce, steady strength.
"That recording was recovered from your own cloud backup, Dr. Vance," Julian said coldly, pausing the playback. "You kept it as insurance against Diane, didn't you? In case she ever refused to pay."
Vance buried his face in his hands. A dry, pathetic sob broke from his throat.
"She made me do it," Vance wept, tears leaking through his fingers. "Diane owns the mortgage on my medical building! She threatened to ruin my practice if I didn't help her! Graham didn't know—I swear to God, Graham had no idea! Graham really thought she was infertile! He cried in my office! He begged me to find a way to make her pregnant!"
"And Brielle Stanton?" Julian pressed, his voice unyielding. "What was her role?"
Vance looked up, his eyes bloodshot and terrified. "Brielle found out six months ago. She overheard Diane talking on the phone at the country club. Instead of telling Graham, Brielle went to Diane and blackmailed her. She told Diane that if she didn't help her marry Graham to clear her father's debts, she would take the audio files to the press."
The full, sickening scope of the conspiracy hung in the air.
Graham had been living in a house of mirrors, blinded by his own towering vanity. His mother had poisoned his wife; his mistress had blackmailed his mother; and all of them had used me as the sacrificial lamb on the altar of the Ellison family fortune.
Suddenly, a sharp, twisting cramp seized my lower abdomen.
I gasped, my hand instinctively flying to my stomach as a cold sweat broke out across my forehead. The pain was sharp, stabbing, and relentless.
"Claire?" Julian’s voice instantly lost all its cold professional composure. He dropped his pen, turning toward me with sheer terror in his eyes. "Claire, what is it?"
"My... my stomach," I choked out, doubled over in the chair. "Julian, it hurts..."
"Deposition is adjourned!" Julian roared, kicking his chair back. He didn't wait for Vance or Finch to move. He scooped me into his arms, lifting me effortlessly against his chest as if I weighed nothing at all.
"Call Dr. Reed!" Julian shouted to his executive assistant as he kicked open the conference room doors, carrying me toward the private executive elevator. "Tell her we’re coming to Saint Jude’s right now! Move!"
As the elevator doors closed and darkness began to creep around the edges of my vision, I buried my face in Julian’s lapel, clutching his suit jacket with white-knuckled desperation.
May you like
*Please, God,* I prayed into the dark. *Not my babies. Take everything else. Take the company, take the revenge, take the money... just leave me my babies.*
***
