Chapter 5 - Unraveling the Empire
Z
The visiting room at the Eric M. Taylor Center on Rikers Island smelled of stale industrial floor cleaner, sweat, and despair. The heavy steel door buzzed loudly, unlocking with a mechanical clank that echoed off the reinforced concrete walls.
I sat calmly on one side of a thick plexiglass partition, dressed in a sharp black tailored suit, my hair pinned back impeccably. On the table before me sat a thin leather briefcase.
The door on the inmate side opened, and two corrections officers escorted Julian Vance into the room.
If I hadn't known it was him, I might not have recognized my husband. The sleek, arrogant man who had strutted through Manhattan in four-thousand-dollar suits was gone. In his place stood a hollow, pale man wearing a oversized orange prison jumpsuit. His unwashed hair was disheveled, deep dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, and his hands were trembling as they sat cuffed to a heavy chain around his waist.
Julian sat down heavily on the plastic chair opposite me, his eyes frantically scanning my face through the glass. He picked up the black telephone receiver attached to the wall with a coiled metallic wire.
I slowly lifted my receiver and placed it to my ear.
“Clara,” Julian gasped, his voice cracking with desperation. “Thank God you came. You have to get me out of here. Please. You don't know what it’s like in here! They put me in a holding cell with twelve men! Someone stole my shoes last night, Clara! I haven't slept in three days!”
I stared at him through the glass, my expression completely neutral, like a scientist observing an insect under a microscope. “You look tired, Julian.”
“Clara, listen to me!” Julian pleaded, pressing his forehead against the scuffed glass. “I’m sorry! I was out of my mind at the baby shower! My father was pressing me, Chloe was whispering in my ear for months, filling my head with lies—it was all Chloe and my father! I never wanted to push you, I swear to God! I panicked!”
“You called me barren trash, Julian,” I said softly, my voice carrying over the crackling telephone line with razor-sharp clarity. “While I was lying on the floor carrying your child.”
Julian flinched as if I had slapped him. “I didn't mean it! I was acting! I had to make my father think I was on his side so he wouldn't write me out of his will! You know how my father is! He’s a monster, Clara!”
“A monster whose money you were more than happy to spend,” I countered smoothly.
Julian swallowed hard, his hands twitching against the metal table. “Look, we can fix this. My lawyer said if you sign an affidavit stating that you slipped on the champagne spilled on the floor, the felony assault charge drops immediately. If I get out on bail, I can help you! I know where my father hid thirty million dollars in untraceable bearer bonds in a vault in Zurich! I’ll give you half, Clara! We can take the baby, leave the country, and start over!”
I leaned forward slightly, resting my elbows on the counter. “Where is Chloe, Julian?”
Julian blinked, thrown off by the question. “What? Who cares about Chloe?”
“I’m curious,” I said calmly. “Your twenty-two-year-old mistress. The woman carrying what your father called ‘the real heir.’ Where is she right now?”
Julian spat out a bitter, disgusted noise. “That traitorous little bitch went straight to the federal prosecutors yesterday morning! The moment my father’s accounts were frozen, she cut a deal with Agent Thorne! She confessed that her pregnancy was a complete fake, Clara! She paid a crooked technician at an imaging clinic five thousand dollars to forge those ultrasound pictures so she could pressure me into leaving you!”
A cool, slow smile formed on my lips. I had already known this, of course—Thorne had shown me the confession hours ago—but hearing Julian utter the words himself was deeply gratifying.
“So,” I said, resting my chin on my interlocked fingers. “There is no real heir. Just me. And Leo.”
“Yes!” Julian shouted, his eyes wide with a frantic, delusional hope. “Just us! Our family! Please, Clara, sign the paper! My lawyer is waiting outside in the lobby!”
I reached down, opened my briefcase, and pulled out a sleek blue folder. I opened it and pressed a document flat against the glass wall so Julian could see every word.
It was not a liability waiver.
Printed across the top in bold, black lettering were the words: UNCONDITIONAL DIVORCE PETITION AND FULL FORFEITURE OF PARENTAL RIGHTS.
Julian’s face went completely slack. “What… what is this?”
“This is your reality, Julian,” I said, my tone as cold and unyielding as arctic ice. “You are going to sign this document right now. You will surrender every claim to our son, you will surrender all rights to the Vance estate, and you will agree to a full, uncontested dissolution of our marriage.”
“Are you crazy?!” Julian yelled, shaking his head frantically, his voice echoing in the small booth. “I’m a Vance! I will never give up my son! I will fight you with every lawyer in the state of New York!”
“With what money, Julian?” I asked softly.
He froze.
“Twenty minutes ago,” I continued, pulling a second sheet of paper from my briefcase, “federal agents executed a forfeiture order on all assets tied to Vance Enterprises, including your personal trust funds, your Manhattan loft, your sports cars, and your offshore accounts. You are completely, utterly broke. You cannot even afford a private public defender.”
Julian stared at the paper, his breathing turning shallow and ragged.
“And there’s one more thing,” I added, leaning closer to the glass. “My father was David Mercer.”
Julian’s eyes widened in confusion. “Who?”
“Ask your father when you see him in the exercise yard,” I whispered. “He’ll explain how the daughter of the man he robbed came back to strip his son of everything he ever owned.”
I slid the pen through the small tray under the glass.
“Sign the papers, Julian. Or I personally present the security footage from the baby shower to the grand jury tomorrow morning, along with a written victim statement demanding the maximum sentence of fifteen years for attempted murder of an unborn child.”
Julian looked down at the pen lying in the tray. Sweat broke out across his forehead, running down his pale cheek. The grand illusion of his life—his wealth, his status, his arrogance—had been completely stripped away, leaving behind nothing but a terrified, pathetic coward.
With hands that shook so violently he could barely hold the pen, Julian reached through the slot, pulled the document toward him, and signed his name on the dotted line.
I took the signed papers back, checked the signature with a precise, satisfying nod, and slipped them into my briefcase.
I stood up, adjusting my jacket.
May you like
“Goodbye, Julian,” I said, laying the phone receiver back onto its hook without waiting for a reply.
As I walked out of the visitor’s room, the heavy steel doors slammed shut behind me, leaving Julian Vance screaming in silent agony against the glass wall.
