Chapter 2 - The Skeletons in the Grand Foyer
Vivienne dropped to her knees right into the mud, heedless of the ruined satin gown she had prized only seconds ago.
Her manicured nails clawed frantically at the wet papers, smearing the fresh printer ink across the paving stones.
Every single document bore the private seal of Vance International’s proprietary escrow accounts.
There were dozens of unauthorized wire confirmations routed straight to offshore shell companies in the Grand Caymans.
Every transaction bore her personal signature, executed under the cover of her nonexistent charitable foundation.
“Julian, this is a mistake,” Vivienne stammered, her voice losing its haughty edge and turning into a desperate whine.
“Someone forged my initials.”
“Harrison told me these were tax-exempt donations for the children’s wing!”
“Harrison Reed is an embezzling snake, and you are his willing accomplice,” Julian countered, staring down at her with undisguised disgust.
“He has been using you to funnel money out of my company’s clean energy trust for eighteen months.”
“Did you honestly believe our internal compliance department wouldn't flag thirty million dollars moving through shell corporations?”
Two private security guards in dark suits moved swiftly into the courtyard at Julian’s subtle nod.
“Take Mrs. Vance to the front gates,” Julian instructed them, never breaking eye contact with his kneeling wife.
“She is permitted to take her handbag and the phone registered under her personal name.”
“Everything else in this house—the jewelry, the furs, the vehicles—was purchased with stolen Vance corporate assets.”
“If she steps foot past the perimeter fence again tonight, have the county sheriff take her into custody for grand larceny.”
“You can't do this to me, Julian!” Vivienne screamed, flailing her arms as the two guards firmly hoisted her from the puddle.
“My family has roots in this city that go back a hundred years!”
“I will ruin you in the press!”
“I will tear Vance International down until there is nothing left but ash!”
Her hysterical shrieks faded down the long, winding cobblestone driveway until the heavy iron gates slammed shut with a deafening metallic clang.
The courtyard fell into an uneasy, suffocating quiet.
Julian let out a slow, ragged breath, running a hand through his dark hair as the adrenaline drained from his veins.
He turned his attention back to Clara, who was still clutching her cleaning brush against her chest like a protective shield.
She looked smaller than ever beneath the towering limestone archways of the mansion, her shoes soaked and her lips pale from the cold.
“I am deeply sorry you had to witness that, Clara,” Julian said softly, his voice completely devoid of the thunderous rage he had directed at Vivienne.
“You shouldn't have had to endure her insults.”
“It’s fine, sir,” Clara replied quickly, her eyes darting toward the heavy mahogany exit doors.
“Rich people yell at cleaning staff all the time.”
“I’m used to it.”
“You shouldn't be,” Julian said quietly, stepping aside to motion her toward the warm interior of the grand foyer.
“Come inside by the hearth.”
“You're shivering, and you need dry shoes before you walk to the bus stop.”
Clara hesitated, looking down at her mud-caked sneakers and the trail of water she was bound to leave on the polished Italian marble.
“Mr. Vance, I can’t go inside looking like this,” she protested softly.
“My supervisor will dock my pay if I leave footprints in the main gallery.”
“You don't have to worry about your supervisor anymore,” Julian said, offering a faint, weary smile.
He pulled open the heavy glass door, allowing the fragrant warmth of sandalwood and cedarwood from the fireplace to wash over them.
Clara reluctantly followed him into the cavernous reception hall, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the ground.
Julian walked over to an antique roll-top desk in the corner, unlocked a brass drawer, and pulled out an envelope.
He turned back toward her, his gaze casually falling upon the plastic identification badge pinned to her soaked apron.
The name printed in stark black lettering read: Clara Hayes — Third Shift Custodial.
Julian stopped dead in his tracks, the envelope freezing in his outstretched hand.
His dark eyes widened, scanning her delicate features, the arch of her eyebrows, and the quiet dignity in her stance.
“Hayes?” Julian repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.
Clara looked up, startled by the sudden shift in his demeanor.
“Yes, sir,” she said defensively.
“Did my agency spell something wrong on the billing invoice?”
Julian’s throat constricted as a memory from seven years ago surged to the surface with violent clarity.
He remembered an honest, quiet chief auditor named Arthur Hayes who had died under mysterious circumstances right after warning the board about a massive Prescott family fraud.
“Tell me something, Clara,” Julian asked, his voice thick with an emotion she couldn't decipher.
May you like
“Was your father's name Arthur?”
Clara froze, her breath catching in her throat as the color drained completely from her face.
