Chapter 4 - The Blood in the Wine Glass
The name hit the room like a concussive blast.
Dr. Arthur Vance was not just the Kane family physician; he was Margaret’s personal doctor for twenty-five years.
He was the man responsible for issuing all official medical certificates, managing Margaret's heart medications, and evaluating her mental competence for the trust board.
And at that very moment, Dr. Vance was sitting inside the locked dining salon along with the rest of the family.
“He is the one who drafted the medical definitions in Section 14B,” Ethan muttered, his voice cold enough to freeze blood.
“If Margaret fell, Vance would be the first person to examine her.”
“He would declare her medically unfit, order an immediate transfer to his private clinic, and execute the conservatorship before midnight.”
Julia felt a chill race down her spine.
The web was far more intricate and sinister than a simple greedy nephew acting on impulse.
Julian was merely the battering ram; the real scalpel was being wielded by the family’s most trusted physician.
Ethan dragged Sterling across the hallway and shoved him inside the reinforced silver vault.
“Stay here and don't make a sound,” Ethan warned the weeping butler.
“If you touch that heavy iron door before I return, my guards will turn you into mulch.”
Ethan slammed the vault door shut and turned the exterior spinning wheel, locking Sterling securely inside.
He turned toward Julia, his expression unreadable.
“We are heading back upstairs,” Ethan said.
“Keep your mouth shut until I tell you to speak.”
They moved back up the servant stairs, emerging into the main corridor just outside the dining salon.
Two armed guards saluted Ethan with tense expressions.
“Any movement inside?” Ethan asked quietly.
“Mr. Julian has been screaming at the doors every five minutes, sir,” the guard answered.
“Dr. Vance has been trying to calm him down, offering him sedatives from his medical bag.”
Ethan’s mouth curved into a grim, predatory smile.
“Of course he has,” Ethan whispered.
Ethan pushed the double doors open, walking back into the dining salon with Julia right behind him.
The moment the doors opened, the room erupted.
Julian stormed across the carpet, his face red and veins bulging along his neck.
“Ethan, this is an international disgrace!” Julian roared, waving his manicured hands.
“You lock us in here like common criminals because an untrained maid tripped over her own feet!”
“I demand you open these doors immediately or I will have the syndicate council strip you of your rank!”
Ethan didn't even blink.
He walked past Julian as if the man were made of thin air, heading straight toward the head of the dining table.
Margaret had returned to the salon, accompanied by attorney Marcus Finch.
She sat back in her grand chair, watching the spectacle with eyes of polished slate.
Dr. Arthur Vance sat three seats down, looking distinguished with his silver-streaked hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and tailored tweed blazer.
Beside Dr. Vance’s elbow rested a black leather medical bag.
“Ethan,” Dr. Vance spoke in a calm, soothing baritone, the voice of a professional accustomed to comforting the dying.
“Julian is overly agitated, but he is correct on one point.”
“Your grandmother just suffered a traumatic near-miss.”
“Her blood pressure must be dangerously elevated.”
“As her primary physician, I strongly advise that we conclude this unnecessary lockdown and allow me to administer a mild beta-blocker to Margaret.”
Ethan stood at the table, resting his hands on the polished wood directly in front of Margaret’s untouched wine glass.
The dark red wine inside the crystal goblet caught the light of the chandelier, looking like a pool of fresh blood.
“A beta-blocker, Arthur?” Ethan asked, his voice deceptively mild.
“Or perhaps another dose of whatever you gave Thomas Sterling in the garden pavilion this morning?”
The temperature in the salon seemed to plummet twenty degrees.
Dr. Vance’s soothing expression froze for a microsecond before smoothing back into polite confusion.
“I beg your pardon, Ethan?” Vance said, chuckling softly.
“I haven't spoken to Thomas since Tuesday.”
“Thomas is currently locked in the basement vault,” Ethan said smoothly.
“He gave me the Swiss wire transfer receipts paying for his daughter’s leukemia clinic.”
“And he told me exactly who handed him the glass vial meant for this goblet.”
Eleanor let out a sharp, theatrical gasp, pulling her chair away from Dr. Vance.
Julian stopped his shouting, staring at the doctor with sudden, panicked confusion.
“Arthur?” Julian stammered, looking genuinely lost.
“What is he talking about? What vial?”
Julia watched Julian’s face very carefully.
The nephew looked genuinely confused, his arrogance replaced by real bewilderment.
Ethan reached down, picked up the full crystal wine goblet, and held it up to the chandelier light.
“Julia,” Ethan called without turning his head.
“Yes, Mr. Ethan?” Julia answered, stepping forward.
“Tell the room why my grandmother didn't drink her vintage tonight.”
Julia looked straight at Dr. Vance, whose knuckles were now slowly turning white against his leather bag.
“I spilled water on Mrs. Kane’s napkin during the first course,” Julia said clearly.
“Mrs. Kane was displeased and ordered sparkling water instead.”
“The wine remained untouched for the entire meal.”
Ethan swirled the dark liquid inside the crystal glass.
“A brilliant plan, Arthur,” Ethan said, his voice dropping into a lethal purr.
“If she drank the wine, she becomes disoriented and dizzy.”
“She tries to leave the table, she falls on her own, and you rush forward as the heroic doctor.”
“You diagnose a transient ischemic attack—a mini-stroke.”
“You load her into your private ambulance, sedate her heavily, and declare her incapacitated before she can sign the new trust.”
“And Julian automatically becomes the temporary conservator under Section 14B.”
Dr. Vance let out a dry, dismissive sigh, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses.
“This is absurd theater, Ethan,” Vance said coldly.
“You are taking the paranoid ramblings of a thief like Sterling and an opportunistic housemaid to accuse your family’s most loyal doctor.”
“If there is poison in that glass, prove it.”
“Call an independent laboratory.”
“By the time they arrive, midnight will have passed, and Margaret will have missed her legal signing deadline anyway.”
Vance knew the rules of the trust.
If the trust documents were not formally executed and notarized before midnight on the annual date, the existing draft remained legally binding for another twelve months.
It was ten-forty-five PM.
Vance was running out the clock.
Ethan didn't call a laboratory.
Instead, Ethan walked over to the side table where the family’s prize purebred Doberman was sitting quietly beside a security handler.
“Ethan, what are you doing?” Eleanor shrieked.
Ethan didn't answer.
He dipped the tip of a silver dessert spoon into the wine, then placed a few drops of the liquid onto a small piece of roasted beef from the serving platter.
He set the meat down in front of the dog.
The animal eagerly swallowed the meat in a single bite.
For two minutes, the entire dining salon held its collective breath.
The silence was so heavy that the ticking of the grandfather clock sounded like hammer blows.
At two minutes and forty seconds, the massive dog’s hind legs suddenly wobbled.
Its eyes rolled back, its tongue lolled out of its mouth, and the animal collapsed heavily onto the Persian rug, breathing with deep, unnaturally heavy snores.
It wasn't dead, but it was completely and profoundly unconscious.
A collective scream tore out of Eleanor’s throat.
Julian stumbled backward, knocking his dining chair to the floor.
“My God!” Julian yelled, pointing a trembling finger at Vance.
“You bastard! You were going to drug my aunt!”
Dr. Vance didn't flinch.
The polite, grandfatherly facade evaporated from his face, replaced by a cold, calculating sneer.
“You hypocritical idiot, Julian,” Vance spat, his voice devoid of all warmth.
“Don't act like your hands are clean.”
Vance slowly unzipped the side compartment of his black medical bag, his fingers slipping inside.
“Nobody moves!” Ethan shouted, drawing his pistol and aiming it directly between Vance’s eyes.
Vance did not pull out a gun.
Instead, he pulled out a small, encrypted satellite phone and held it up for everyone to see.
“Pull that trigger, Ethan,” Vance whispered, a venomous smile spreading across his thin lips.
“And the signal that keeps the front gates locked will drop immediately.”
“There are three armored SUVs sitting two hundred yards outside your perimeter right now.”
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“They aren't here to negotiate.”
“They are here to collect what Julian promised them six months ago.”
