Chapter 5 - The RetaliationZ
The victory at the Metropolitan Club sent shockwaves through Manhattan's financial elite. By the following afternoon, Harold Prescott was a pariah. His bank accounts were frozen, his corporate partners cut ties with him overnight, and news outlets were openly investigating the financial discrepancies within the Prescott Foundation.
But a wounded rat is at its most dangerous when backed into a corner.
I was sitting in my new private office on the forty-fifth floor of the Sterling & Vance tower overlooking the Hudson River, reviewing operational files with Owen, when my private line rang. It was an unlisted number.
I tapped the speaker button. "Anastasia Vance."
"You think you’re smart, don’t you, Anastasia?" Harold’s voice hissed through the speaker. He sounded unhinged, his breathing heavy and ragged. "You think having a rich dead father makes you invincible?"
Owen immediately gestured to his laptop, signaling his security team to trace the call.
"Where are you, Harold?" I asked calmly, keeping my voice cold and steady.
"I’m somewhere you can’t touch me," he sneered. "You took my company. You ruined my reputation. But you forgot one little detail, my dear."
My heart gave a tight thud, but I kept my face impassive. "There’s nothing left for you to take, Harold."
"Isn't there?" Harold laughed—a dry, bitter, terrifying sound. "Did you really think I didn't keep backups? Did you really think I didn't know about your little family secret long before Owen Rodgers ever tracked you down?"
I frowned, looking at Owen, who was listening intently.
"What are you talking about?" I asked.
"Your precious adoptive father, Arthur Robbins," Harold said, his voice dropping into a sinister whisper. "You spent your whole life believing he was a saint. A poor, humble high school teacher who took in an orphan out of the goodness of his heart. You want to know how he really died, Anastasia?"
A cold drop of sweat trickled down my spine. "He died in a car crash on Route 9."
"He died because he was fleeing the police!" Harold shouted through the phone. "Arthur Robbins didn't just take you in, Anastasia! He stole you! He was Julian Vance’s accountant before he became a teacher. He embezzled millions from Sterling & Vance, kidnapped you to use as leverage against Julian, and spent thirty years hiding you in plain sight!"
I stood up from my chair, my vision going blurry with sudden shock. "That’s a lie."
"Is it?" Harold mocked. "I have the original police files from 1991. I have the wire transfers signed by Arthur Robbins himself. If this hits the press, your glorious father’s legacy will be destroyed. The Vance family will sue your trust into oblivion to reclaim stolen assets, and you’ll be left with nothing—just like you were when I found you!"
"What do you want, Harold?" I demanded, my hands shaking.
"I want fifty million dollars in an offshore account in the Cayman Islands by six o'clock tonight," Harold spat. "And a full public apology from you admitting that you fabricated the fraud allegations against me. Do it, or I drop the files to the New York Post and the federal prosecutor."
The line went dead.
I sank back into my chair, my breath coming in short, painful gasps. Arthur Robbins—the kind, gentle man who had read me bedtime stories, who had taught me how to ride a bike, who had worked two jobs just to buy me clothes for school—was a thief and a kidnapper?
"Anastasia, look at me," Owen said firmly, stepping around the desk and grabbing my hands. His touch was warm, solid, and grounding. "Look at me."
I met his blue eyes, which were burning with intense determination.
"Harold is bluffing about Arthur," Owen said fiercely. "I worked with Julian Vance for seven years. I personally read Julian’s private journals before he passed away. Arthur Robbins did not kidnap you."
"Then why does Harold have those files?" I choked out.
"Because Harold fabricated them," Owen explained, his mind working rapidly. "Or he purchased falsified court documents constructed by Julian Vance’s corrupt stepbrother, Marcus Vance."
The name struck the room like a physical blow.
"Marcus Vance?" I repeated.
"Marcus is Julian’s half-brother," Owen said, his face darkening. "He’s been trying to dismantle Julian’s trust ever since Julian died. Marcus was the one who leaked your existence to Harold eleven years ago. They’ve been working together all along."
The puzzle pieces finally slammed into place with horrific clarity.
Harold hadn't just accidentally stumbled upon my heritage. He had been planted in my life by Marcus Vance. Harold was supposed to marry me, keep me docile, and eventually transfer my controlling shares over to Marcus in exchange for a massive payout. But when Harold’s own company began to fail, he got greedy and tried to steal the trust for himself—forcing Marcus to leak information to Owen in an attempt to destroy Harold before Harold could claim the money.
It wasn't just a bitter husband trying to humiliate his wife. It was a multi-billion-dollar war between ruthless men who viewed me as nothing more than a bargaining chip.
"They think I’m still the helpless girl from the gala," I said, the shock vanishing from my chest, replaced by an icy, unstoppable fury. "They think they can play chess with my life."
"What do you want to do?" Owen asked, a hint of a proud smile touching his lips.
"Call Federal Prosecutor Vance," I ordered, standing up tall. "And tell our legal team to prepare a press conference for 5:30 PM."
"What are we announcing?"
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I looked Owen dead in the eye.
"We are going to give Harold his fifty million dollars," I said coldly. "Directly into a marked Department of Justice escrow account under federal extortion charges."
