Chapter 7 - The Confrontation at First Light
It was 7:30 AM when my cell phone connected to Rose’s private line.
It rang four times before a groggy, irritated voice answered.
“Hello?” Rose muttered, sounding like she had barely slept a wink. “Clara? Do you have any idea what time it is? Julian and I are supposed to be leaving for our honeymoon in Bora Bora in three hours, and our wedding night was an absolute disaster because you caused a massive scene and vanished without a trace!”
“Good morning, Rose,” I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “Did you enjoy your wedding night in the penthouse suite while your new husband was busy downloading live audio of my son and me from a micro-bug hidden under our table?”
A heavy, suffocating silence dropped over the line.
“What... what are you talking about, Clara?” Rose stammered, her voice suddenly losing its defensive edge. “A bug? What kind of crazy paranoia are you talking about now?”
“It’s not paranoia, Rose. It’s federal wire fraud,” I said smoothly. “Julian didn't marry you because he loves you. He married you to get his hands on Dad’s fifteen-million-dollar trust fund. And the only way he could steal it was by declaring me legally incompetent in court this morning so he could take control of the family estate.”
“You’re lying!” Rose shouted, her voice cracking with rising hysteria. “Julian is a successful businessman! He loves me! He paid for every single cent of this wedding out of his own pocket!”
“Did he?” I countered coldly. “Check his corporate accounts, Rose. Check the wire transfers from Carrington-Vance Holdings over the last six months. He’s been embezzling funds from municipal real estate accounts just to stay afloat. The second the trust transfers to him, he’s going to drain every account, dump you like yesterday’s garbage, and skip the country.”
“I don’t believe you!” she sobbed. “You’re just jealous because I found someone who takes care of me! You’ve always tried to ruin my happiness—”
“Open your email, Rose,” I interrupted, signaling to Marcus across the room. “I just sent you the certified copy of Dad’s original will, the probate court petition filed by Julian’s attorneys this morning, and a photo of the bug your wonderful husband planted under our table at your wedding reception.”
Another long, agonizing silence stretched across the line.
Then came the sound of a phone dropping against a hard hotel surface, followed by muffled crying.
“Rose?” I said softly. “If you want to save yourself—and whatever is left of our family—meet me at the Los Angeles Superior Courthouse in ninety minutes. Department 402.”
I hung up before she could answer.
May you like
Marcus spun around in his chair, holding up a flash drive with a triumphant grin.
“Got it,” Marcus said. “MAC address matches Julian Vance’s personal iPad Pro. Complete with GPS coordinates showing he was sitting in the VIP holding suite streaming audio of your table at 6:45 PM yesterday. Game over.”
