Chapter 3 - Blood on the Marble
Harrison Vance stopped three paces away, eyeing my blood-drenched appearance with clinical detachment.
"Julian," he said, keeping his voice quiet and even. "You need to clean yourself up."
I stared at him, my knuckles tightening against the hospital tile until the skin nearly split.
"Clara is in surgery fighting for her life, Harrison," I said, my voice dangerously hollow.
"I am aware of the medical situation," Vance replied smoothly, adjusting his gold cufflinks.
"Are you aware that my mother tried to kill her?"
"What happened at the villa was a tragic domestic accident born of heightened emotional tensions," Vance said without blinking.
"An accident?" I whispered, rising slowly from the floor.
The two younger attorneys behind him subtly shifted their feet, glancing nervously down the empty hallway.
"Your mother was overwhelmed by the unexpected confrontation," Vance continued, completely unfazed. "She suffered a hypertensive episode."
"She picked up a solid brass candlestick and cracked Clara’s skull open, Harrison."
"That is not how the incident will be recorded in the official police report," Vance stated plainly.
A cold, deadly calm settled over me, extinguishing the panic and replacing it with pure, crystalline hatred.
"What did you do?" I asked, stepping directly into his personal space.
Vance didn't back down; he had spent decades burying bodies for the Sterling empire.
"The guests who witnessed the disturbance have signed comprehensive non-disclosure agreements," he said quietly.
"They were guests at a private party. They saw an unfortunate fall involving decorative tableware."
"She threw herself at me with a wooden humidor!" I shouted, the fury tearing through my chest.
"Keep your voice down," Vance commanded softly. "The local precinct has already concluded their initial assessment."
"And what did that cost Eleanor? Two million? Three?"
"It cost whatever was necessary to protect Sterling Telecommunications from an unwarranted forty-percent stock collapse on Monday morning."
He reached into his breast pocket and produced a single sheet of paper enclosed in a leather folder.
"Your mother has authorized a trust fund of fifty million dollars for the child’s future care," Vance said.
"Under the condition that Clara signs a statement attesting that her fall was accidental and unprovoked."
I looked down at the crisp white paper, then up into the cold, calculating eyes of my family’s fixer.
"She’s eight months pregnant, Harrison. The baby is coming out right now because of internal bleeding."
"Then Clara will need the best medical care money can buy. This trust ensures that."
"And what happens to Eleanor?"
"Eleanor will release a statement expressing profound grief over her daughter-in-law's unfortunate slip on the marble stairs."
"You're disgusting," I spat, my voice vibrating with disgust.
"I am preserving your inheritance, Julian. You are the sole heir to four billion dollars."
"I wouldn't take a single cent of her blood money if it were the last dollar on this earth."
I grabbed the leather folder from his hands, ripped the paper in half, and shoved the pieces against his chest.
Vance didn't flinch as the torn paper fluttered to the floor between his polished oxfords.
"Your father was an idealist too, Julian. It didn't serve him well."
"My father died because my mother crushed his spirit until his heart gave out," I replied, leaning into his face.
"Tell Eleanor that the boy who used to take her slaps in silence is dead."
"Julian, think very carefully before you wage war against your own blood."
"I’m not waging a war, Harrison," I whispered, holding his gaze until his eyes finally flickered.
"I’m calling the district attorney. And then I’m calling the Department of Justice."
Vance smiled thinly, a patronizing smirk that revealed the sheer arrogance of unchecked wealth.
"The county prosecutor owes his seat to your mother’s PAC, son. Who do you think they’ll believe?"
"They won't have to believe anyone," a deep voice cut in from the corridor.
We both turned.
Two uniformed state troopers were walking down the hall, flanked by a female detective in a dark trench coat.
Her badge caught the harsh fluorescent light, gleaming like a warning beacon.
"Harrison Vance?" Detective Miller asked, stopping right in front of the lawyer.
"Detective. I was just speaking with my client’s son," Vance said, his demeanor instantly turning cordial.
"I don't care who you’re speaking with," Miller said, pulling out a pair of steel handcuffs.
"Your client, Eleanor Sterling, was intercepted by highway patrol twenty minutes ago attempting to board her private jet at the county airstrip."
Vance’s face drained of color for the first time in his career.
"Under what charge?" he demanded, his voice losing its polished veneer.
"Attempted second-degree murder, felony assault with a deadly weapon, and felony child endangerment," Miller stated coldly.
"That’s an outrage! She has medical conditions—"
"She has an appointment with the county magistrate at sunrise," Miller interrupted, turning to me.
Her gaze softened slightly as she saw the blood soaking my clothes.
"Julian Sterling?" she asked gently.
"Yes," I croaked, the exhaustion finally hitting my bones.
"We obtained the villa’s cloud security footage before your mother’s IT team could wipe the local servers," she said quietly.
May you like
"We saw everything. She’s not walking away from this."
***
