Chapter 6 - The Bloodline Debt
We intercepted Adrian in the underground parking garage of First National. He looked disheveled, his designer tie undone, his eyes bloodshot from sleeplessness. He was waiting near a silver sedan, pacing frantically as he dialed his phone over and over.
“She’s not picking up, Adrian,” I called out, stepping out of the elevator accompanied by Thomas.
Adrian spun around, nearly dropping his phone. “What did you do to her? Where is Lila?”
“Lila is currently at Gate 4 of the private executive airfield,” I said evenly, tossing the dossier at his feet. “Or at least, she was twenty minutes ago before federal agents boarded her Gulfstream on charges of corporate espionage and interstate fraud.”
Adrian scrambled to pick up the papers, his eyes wildly scanning the documents. The color drained from his face as he saw the bank routing numbers, the Cayman registrations, and the surveillance photos of Lila meeting with Vogel family attorneys behind his back.
“No... no, she loved me,” Adrian muttered, trembling violently. “She told me we were going to start over in Monaco. She told me you were the only thing holding me back!”
“She used you, Adrian,” I said, feeling no pity, only a chilling sense of closure. “Just like you used me. You were so blinded by your own arrogance and cruelty that you let a con artist rob you blind while you dumped your own wife in the gutter.”
Tires screeched down the garage ramp. A vintage town car pulled up, and Vivian tumbled out, her makeup smeared, wearing a fur coat over silk pajamas.
“Adrian! The police are at the house!” Vivian shrieked, ignoring me. “They’re seizing the jewelry! They’re seizing my cars! Claire, you monster, tell them to stop! Your father owed my family everything!”
Eleanor stepped out from the shadow of the elevator alcove, her cane tapping rhythmically against the concrete.
“Arthur Sterling never owed you a single dime, Vivian,” Eleanor said, her voice dropping into a register of pure ice.
Vivian froze. She stared at Eleanor, her eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated terror. “You... it can't be. You’re supposed to be in an institution in Switzerland.”
“I buried my son twenty-five years ago because of your slander and your forged ledger entries, Vivian,” Eleanor said, taking a deliberate step forward. “I remember the sound of your voice. I never forget a voice. You helped ruin the Whitmore family name back then, and you groomed your weak-willed son to do the same to Arthur Sterling’s daughter.”
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Vivian began to hyperventilate, clutching her chest as two uniformed police cruisers blocked the garage exit, their red and blue lights painting the concrete walls in flashing crimson.
***
