Chapter 7 - The Enemy of My Enemy
The pain in Alexander's eyes subsided into a dull, throbbing torment by the time he washed his face in the service bathroom in the alleyway.
He stumbled out into the cold rain, wiping his burning cheeks with rough brown paper towels.
His mind was spinning in chaotic circles.
Claire made Ava an offer.
The words repeated in his head like a siren.
Ava was supposed to be his weapon.
She was supposed to be the proof of his youth, his dominance, his absolute control over his household.
Now, the two women who had defined his private life had formed a silent, lethal pincer movement around his throat.
He got into his car, his blurred vision barely making out the dashboard.
He didn't drive back to his corporate tower.
He couldn't.
Reporters were already camped out on the sidewalk outside the Willis Tower.
Instead, he drove to the quiet, tree-lined streets of Lincoln Park.
He pulled up in front of a limestone brownstone with a discreet brass plaque beside the double doors: Sterling, Cross & Vance, Attorneys at Law.
The rain beat mercilessly against his windshield.
He pushed through the front entrance, tracking muddy slush across the hand-woven oriental carpets in the reception hall.
The receptionist, an elderly woman who had worked for Julian Vance forty years ago, didn't even flinch.
"He is waiting for you in the second-floor library, Mr. Whitmore," she said softly.
Alexander didn't take the elevator.
He took the stairs two at a time, his chest burning with every breath.
He pushed open the heavy oak doors of the library.
The room was warm, smelling of cedarwood, leather-bound casebooks, and roasted coffee.
Sitting at the far end of the long mahogany conference table was not Harold Sterling.
It was Claire.
She was wearing a tailored navy wool blazer over a white silk shirt.
Her dark hair was pulled back in an immaculate, low chignon.
There was no gold around her neck.
There was no diamond ring on her finger.
She sat with her hands folded neatly over a manila folder, looking entirely, terrifically sovereign.
Beside her sat Harold Sterling, quietly dipping a silver spoon into a cup of Earl Grey tea.
And sitting two seats away, holding a designer leather handbag on her lap, was Ava Sinclair.
Alexander stopped dead in the center of the Persian rug.
The sight of the two women in the same room broke whatever fragile sanity he had left.
"What is this?" Alexander croaked, his voice raw from the chemical burn.
"What the hell is this circus?"
Claire looked up.
Her eyes were the same deep, unflinching gray he had fallen in love with nine years ago in a small coffee shop near Northwestern University.
Back then, he thought that calm gaze was submissiveness.
He thought it was fragility.
Now, looking into those eyes, he realized it was the terrifying stillness of deep water.
"Sit down, Alexander," Claire said quietly.
Her voice didn't carry an ounce of anger.
It was the tone an executive uses when reviewing a disappointing quarterly spreadsheet.
Alexander didn't sit.
He pointed a shaking hand at Ava.
"She sprayed me! She attacked me in my own apartment!"
"It's not your apartment," Harold Sterling intervened smoothly, without looking up from his tea.
"The title of the Gold Coast condominium was held by Apex Global Logistics LLC."
"Apex Global is a wholly-owned subsidiary of the South Chicago Terminal Holding Group."
"Which, as of noon today, is under the direct administration of the Vance Estate Trust."
"You don't own the chair you're refusing to sit in, Alexander."
"Nor do you own the shoes on your feet."
Alexander felt the room tilt beneath him.
He dropped into the nearest leather armchair, his knees buckling under the weight of the realization.
Ava didn't look at him with hatred.
She looked at him with something far worse: complete, dismissive boredom.
On the table between Claire and Ava sat a small velvet tray.
Resting on the velvet, gleaming softly in the warm library light, was Eleanor Vance's string of cream-colored pearls.
The gold clasp was resting open.
"How much did she pay you?" Alexander spat at Ava, his lips curling in disgust.
Ava checked her manicure.
"Claire didn't pay me a dime, Alexander."
"She didn't have to."
"She simply agreed not to file criminal charges against me for grand larceny and possession of stolen heritage property."
"Did you really think I was going to risk five years in a federal penitentiary for your ego?"
"You told me the necklace belonged to your late mother."
"You signed an insurance rider claiming it was an unencumbered gift."
"You committed interstate wire fraud the moment you insured that string under my name."
Alexander turned to his wife, his throat constricting.
"Claire... please."
"We were together for eight years."
"Eight years! I loved you!"
"You built your company on my grandmother's bones, Alexander," Claire replied softly.
"And when you thought you had grown tall enough, you used her last breath to buy a smile from another woman."
"You didn't love me."
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"You loved the silence I gave you."
"And now," Claire reached forward, gently pulling the velvet tray toward herself, "the silence is over."
