Chapter 16 - The Fall of Julian Vale
The cold air hit my face like a slap as Victoria’s mercenaries dragged me out of the shattered SUV.
My hands were pulled behind my back, bound tightly with heavy plastic zip-ties that cut into my wrists.
I didn't scream, and I didn't beg.
I used every ounce of my will to memorize their boots, the insignia on their tactical vests, and the serial numbers on their rifles.
Ethan remained motionless in the crushed cabin of the vehicle, his breathing shallow but steady.
They didn't bother shooting him; they assumed the fifty-foot tumble down Blackwood Ridge had already broken his neck.
"Careful with her silk dress," Victoria mocked, stepping over the icy rocks with designer leather boots.
"She spent so much of Julian’s stolen money looking the part of an empress."
"Julian is in federal lockup facing twenty-five years, Victoria," I spat, wiping the blood from my brow against my shoulder.
"You used him like a brainless attack dog, and he gave you nothing."
Victoria turned, her face twisting into sudden, venomous disgust.
"Julian was an arrogant fool who thought sleeping with my assistant would make him my equal," she said, nodding to her men to drag me up the trail.
"He was bankrupt before he even abandoned you on Route Nine."
"My father kept his family afloat just long enough to keep you pacified."
"If Julian had simply kept you locked in that suburban penthouse for another two months, we would have owned the Whitmore trusts outright."
"Instead, his pathetic ego ruined twenty years of planning."
We reached the crest of Blackwood Ridge, where a desolate, weathered log cabin stood hidden among the towering hemlocks.
Smoke rose from the stone chimney, but there was no warmth in the atmosphere.
Parked in the clearing was a sleek black Mercedes limousine with diplomatic plates.
Victor Sterling stood on the covered porch, holding a silver thermos, an unlit Cuban cigar clamped between his teeth.
Beside him, tied to a heavy timber armchair with chains wrapped around his torso, was an older man.
My heart seized in my chest, a sudden, blinding agony tearing through my lungs.
The man in the chair had gray hair at his temples, sharp cheekbones, and the same dark, defiant eyes I saw in the mirror every morning.
Anthony Vance.
His face was weathered by two decades of salt spray, hiding, and manual labor in foreign ports.
He was bruised, his lip split and bleeding, but when his eyes found mine, the pain vanished, replaced by an unbearable wave of fierce, fatherly pride.
"Claire..." Anthony whispered, his voice rough and broken like gravel underfoot.
"Anthony, look at her," Victor Sterling said, exhaling a plume of white condensation into the freezing mountain air.
"She survived your sister, she survived that idiot Vale boy, and she almost made it to your doorstep."
"Let her go, Victor!" Anthony roared, straining against the heavy steel chains until the timber chair groaned.
"The quarrel was between you and me! She knows nothing about the Panama charters!"
"She knows enough to sign the transfer of management," Victor replied coldly, pulling a legal document from his leather coat.
"Claire Vance holds the proxy vote that Eleanor surrendered yesterday morning."
"Without Claire’s signature, the banks will freeze all Whitmore operating accounts at nine a.m. tomorrow."
"Sign the proxy, Claire," Victor said, turning his dead eyes toward me.
"Sign it, and I will let your father live out his final years in an offshore villa."
"Refuse, and I will execute him on this porch, shoot you in the knee, and leave you in this freezing forest just like Julian did."
I looked at the contract fluttering in the mountain wind.
I looked at my father, who had spent twenty years in exile to keep me from becoming a target.
Then, my gaze shifted to the treeline thirty yards away.
The rustle of pine branches was too subtle for Victor’s mercenaries to notice, but I saw the dark silhouette moving through the shadows.
Ethan Cross was not dead.
He had climbed that fifty-foot ravine with a dislocated shoulder and a Glock 19 gripped in his left hand.
I took a slow, deep breath, lifting my chin with absolute, regal disdain.
"Julian Vale tried to break me with cold water and dirt, Victor," I said, letting every word ring clear across the clearing.
"And you are threatening me with a piece of paper."
"Did you really think a woman who conquered Wall Street in an afternoon would kneel on a pile of pine needles?"
Victor’s eyes flared with sudden fury.
May you like
"Kill the old man," Victor commanded, stepping back toward the cabin door.
Before the mercenary could raise his rifle, the silence of the ridge was torn apart by two deafening gunshots.
