BILLIONAIRE'S FIANCÉE BRUTALLY ATTACKS HIS SICK MOTHER AT THE ALTAR—UNTIL A CRYPTIC NOTE IN AN 8-YEAR-OLD'S HAND EXPOSES A DEADLY EMPIRE HEIST!

The heavy rain began to pound against the arched glass roof of the Vance estate, mimicking the relentless clock ticking down inside Julian’s mind.

Thirty-five minutes.

Julian did not hesitate. “Get in the car.”

“Oh, we’re not taking your armored Maybach with your private driver, Julian,” Bianca sneered, slipping the vial of Digifab back into her clutch and pulling a compact .22 caliber pistol from the lining of her silver coat. “You’re driving my coupe. Just the two of us. If I see a single security tail, I will smash this vial on the asphalt, and you can listen to your mother flatline over the speakerphone.”

Julian’s face was an emotionless mask of granite. “Done.”

Within three minutes, the sleek black sports coupe tore out of the estate gates, spraying gravel into the darkness, racing toward the Vance family’s ancestral brownstone in the Upper East Side. Manhattan blurred past the rain-streaked windows—neon signs, rushing yellow cabs, and towering skyscrapers reflecting in the dark puddles.

Julian drove with lethal precision, his hands steady on the leather steering wheel, his mind calculating every variable with cold, algorithmic speed. Underneath his cufflink, a microscopic GPS transponder was already broadcasting their telemetry directly to Marcus.

“You’re surprisingly quiet, Julian,” Bianca mocked from the passenger seat, the small barrel of the gun pressed firmly against his ribs. “No tears for your precious mother? No curses for your sweet, backstabbing sister?”

“Camille was always weak,” Julian replied coldly, his eyes fixed on the rain-swept avenue. “She gambled away her inheritance in Monaco before she was twenty-five. I covered her debts three times. I assumed she was just incompetent. I didn't realize she was malicious.”

“She’s both,” Bianca laughed softly. “She came to Marcus Drake—your biggest competitor in maritime logistics. Drake bought her debt, and in return, she gave him Vance Enterprises’ internal codes. But your wife Clara found the discrepancy. Clara had to go. And then, when Camille realized your mother was drafting a new will to bypass her entirely and give everything to little Chloe… well, Camille panicked. She called me back into the game.”

“And what is your cut, Bianca? Why marry me?”

“Because Drake’s payout was only ten million,” she said, her voice dropping into a greedy, covetous purr. “Why settle for crumbs when I could marry the king? A widow’s share of the Vance estate is worth four billion dollars. All I had to do was tolerate you for a year, let your mother die of ‘natural causes,’ and then slip a little something into your nightcap. You’d die of a broken heart, Julian. Grief-stricken billionaire commits suicide after losing his wife and mother. Poetic, don't you think?”

Julian’s knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. “You underestimated one thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“My mother.”

Julian slammed on the brakes. The sports coupe went into a violent, controlled 180-degree skid, tires screaming against the wet asphalt, stopping dead in the private cobblestone courtyard of the Upper East Side brownstone. The sudden deceleration threw Bianca forward against the seatbelt, knocking her gun hand aside.

Before she could recover, Julian’s left hand struck like a viper, clamping down on her wrist and slamming it against the center console.

CRACK!

Bianca screamed in agony as the bones in her wrist yielded to Julian’s terrifying strength. The .22 pistol dropped into the footwell. Julian did not grab the gun. He reached straight into her coat, snatched the silver clutch, and extracted the glass vial of Digifab.

He shoved the door open, stepped out into the freezing downpour, and pulled his phone from his pocket. He dialed Marcus’s direct encrypted line.

“Marcus!” Julian yelled over the roar of the rain. “I have the Digifab. A police escort is waiting at the corner of 72nd and Park. Meet them immediately and deliver it to Presbyterian Hospital! Evelyn has twenty-two minutes!”

“On it, Boss!” Marcus barked. “A tactical team is already converging on the brownstone! Julian, watch out—Camille’s phone just pinged inside your private study!”

Julian’s head snapped toward the upper floor of the brownstone. Through the three-story gothic windows, a faint, flickering light moved through the darkness of the fourth-floor library.

Julian turned to Bianca, who was stumbling out of the passenger seat, holding her broken wrist, her silver dress soaked and ruined by the rain, her mascara running in black rivers down her pale face.

“You’re finished, Bianca,” Julian said, his voice as cold as the grave.

Bianca looked up at him, and through her pain, she began to laugh hysterically. “You think you saved her? You think this ends with the antidote? Drake’s men are already at the board of directors’ homes with the forged resignations! Camille is upstairs burning the Blue Box right now! Go ahead, Julian! Run up there! Watch your entire legacy turn to ashes!”