Chapter 8 - The Unmasking
Victoria didn't back down. The psychopathic composure that had carried her through thirty-six years of corporate backstabbing rallied. A cold, mocking smirk spread across her crimson lips.
“Julian, darling,” she purred into the podium microphone, her voice echoing with faux-maternal pity. “You survived your tragic psychotic episode in Blackwood. I see Clara is out of the hospital. How wonderful. But you are disrupting an official Securities and Exchange Commission-sanctioned shareholders meeting. If you have grievances regarding Mother’s estate, take them to probate court.”
“This isn't about probate, Victoria,” Julian said, his voice dead calm. He turned slightly toward the back of the room. “Marcus, roll the feed.”
Behind Victoria, the massive sixty-foot high-definition LED displays—which had been showing corporate stock graphs—flickered violently.
The Vance corporate logo vanished.
In its place appeared a video timestamped 11:42 PM, three nights before Eleanor’s death.
It was high-resolution night-vision surveillance footage from Eleanor Vance’s private hospice suite.
The entire ballroom gasped. Senator Sterling stumbled backward, knocking over his water glass.
On the massive screens, the room watched as Victoria entered her dying mother’s room. She walked to the automated IV pump, pulled a dark glass vial from her designer purse, and injected the synthetic peptide directly into the main infusion chamber.
On the audio recording, amplified through the hotel’s surround-sound speakers, Victoria’s voice boomed through the room with crystal-clear malice:
> *“Die faster, you stubborn old bitch. Sign the trust amendment, or I swear to God I’ll put Julian and his little brat in the ground right beside you.”*
On screen, the dying Eleanor Vance weakly turned her head away, tears rolling down her sunken cheeks, as Victoria clamped a gloved hand over her mother’s nose and mouth for forty-five terrifying seconds, forcing the toxic chemical through her bloodstream.
Panic erupted across the ballroom.
Reporters from Bloomberg, CNBC, and the New York Times leapt to their feet, their cameras firing at a hundred frames per second. Wall Street investors began shouting into their cell phones, screaming sell orders before the market even opened.
“TURN IT OFF! TURN IT OFF RIGHT NOW!” Senator Sterling screamed, lunging toward the AV tech booth at the side of the stage.
Two FBI agents intercepted the Senator, twisting his arms behind his back and slamming his face down onto a banquet table, scattering silverware and crystal.
Victoria stood frozen behind the lectern. Her pale skin had turned the color of chalk. Her pupils were dilated to the point where her blue irises were almost invisible.
Julian took three steps up the stage stairs, walking directly up to the lectern.
He reached into his pocket and placed the miniature brass key, the six glass vials of peptide, and Eleanor’s original leather-bound will directly onto the timber surface in front of her.
“Vault Seven is open, Victoria,” Julian whispered, leaning close so only she could hear the ice in his words. “The Department of Justice raided the Blackwood lab three hours ago. They found your unauthorized clinical trials. They found the offshore accounts. They found your hitman in Hartford Memorial.”
Victoria looked from the tiny key to Julian’s eyes. For the first time in her life, the illusion of her supreme control shattered into jagged, irreparable fragments.
“You… you were supposed to die in that room,” she hissed, her voice vibrating with demonic fury. “You were always a weak, useless little boy!”
“I was weak because I loved you as a sister,” Julian said softly. “Mother knew what you were. She tried to save you. But you can't save a monster.”
Clara stepped onto the stage, walking up beside her husband. She stood tall, her chin raised, looking down at the woman who had tried to crush her skull with a stone planter.
“My mother was Arthur Sterling’s true wife,” Clara said, her voice ringing clear and authoritative through the podium microphone. “Under Section 4 of the Sterling Founder’s Trust, all corporate authority held by Victoria Vance-Sterling is revoked immediately. Victoria, you are officially fired from this company. And under Connecticut General Statutes, you are under arrest for the capital murder of Eleanor Vance.”
Victoria stared at Clara’s shoulder, seeing the silver crucifix hanging proudly in the stage lights.
A guttural, animalistic shriek tore from Victoria’s throat.
She abandoned all dignity. She lunged across the podium, her manicured fingers curved into talons, aiming directly for Clara’s throat.
“IT’S MINE! EVERYTHING IS MINE!”
Before she could touch Clara, Julian’s left hand caught Victoria’s wrists in an iron grip. With a single fluid twist, he spun her around and shoved her down onto the stage floor.
The FBI Special Agent stepped forward, placing a heavy combat boot between Victoria’s shoulder blades.
*CLICK-CLACK.*
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The steel handcuffs locked around Victoria’s wrists with brutal finality.
***
