Chapter 25 - The Broken Pedigree
Before Arthur’s hands could even graze my collar, a blur of motion slammed into him.
Vincent tackled Arthur to the marble floor with bone-shattering force. The sound of Arthur’s breath being driven from his lungs echoed like a gunshot. Vincent pinned the older man by his throat, his forearm pressing down against Arthur’s windpipe, his face contorted in a mask of murderous fury.
"Don't you ever look at her again," Vincent snarled, his voice a guttural, terrifying vibration. "Don't you dare breathe the same air as my wife."
"Vincent, stand down!" Deputy Hayes shouted, entering the foyer with four armed marshals, their weapons drawn and trained. "Stand down, Mr. Vance! Let us take him!"
For two agonizing seconds, Vincent didn't move. The veins in his neck were bulging, his knuckles white against Arthur’s purple face. I saw the darkness in Vincent’s eyes—the four years of manipulation, the stolen marriage, the terror of believing he had committed an unspeakable sin—all threatening to culminate in one fatal snap of Arthur’s neck.
"Vincent," I said softly.
He froze at the sound of my voice.
"He isn't worth your freedom," I said. "Let him watch what I do to his empire from a federal penitentiary."
Slowly, Vincent’s chest heaved. He released his grip, pushed himself off the floor, and stepped back to my side. He didn't look at Arthur. He looked only at me, his eyes wide and searching, anchoring himself to my calm.
Two federal agents hauled Arthur to his feet. His expensive cashmere coat was torn, his tie skewed, a line of crimson trickling from his split lip. The cold, dignified corporate titan had been reduced to a disheveled, panting wreck.
"You think you've won?" Arthur wheezed, spitting blood onto the marble floor. He glared at me with pure, unadulterated venom. "You think you can run Vance Global? You're a painter from Lincoln Park! You don't know the first thing about international finance, currency swaps, or corporate debt! The moment the European syndicates hear Jonathan is alive and I am under arrest, the stock will drop forty percent by market open! You will be bankrupt before noon!"
"She won't be alone, Arthur," Jonathan spoke from his wheelchair, his tone dripping with disdain. "I may be physically frail, but my mind is intact. And unlike you, Claire has something our father’s charter always demanded: legitimate bloodline consensus."
"Bloodline?" Arthur laughed, a harsh, grating sound that bordered on hysteria. "She’s a bastard! Eleanor was a whore who signed away every legal right to my name before she left Chicago!"
*Slap.*
The sound cracked through the foyer.
My hand stung from the impact, but my pulse didn't even race. Arthur’s head whipped to the side, a crimson handprint rising immediately on his pale cheek.
"My mother died with more dignity in a hospice ward than you will ever see in your entire wretched life," I said, my voice ice. "You abandoned her because you were terrified of the board. You hid me because you were terrified of your own greed. And now, you will lose everything to the daughter you tried to erase."
Arthur stared at me, the madness in his eyes dimming into a profound, hollow dread. For the first time in his life, he was utterly powerless.
"Get him out of my sight," I told Deputy Hayes.
"With pleasure, Mrs. Vance," Hayes replied. She nodded to her agents. "Arthur Vance, you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, wire fraud, extortion, and obstruction of justice. You have the right to remain silent..."
They dragged him backward out into the biting wind. The heavy oak doors slammed shut, cutting off the wail of police sirens and the freezing lake air.
Silence rushed back into the mansion, heavy and suffocating.
Jonathan let out a long, ragged exhale through his oxygen cannula. "Mark," he whispered, gesturing weakly to his aide. "Take me to the guest wing. My heart cannot endure much more of this night."
"Yes, Mr. Vance," Mark replied, wheeling the old man away down the long corridor, leaving Vincent and me completely alone in the cavernous foyer.
The marble floor was littered with scattered legal papers, drops of blood, and the folded DNA certificate.
Vincent stood three feet away from me. He looked shattered. The adrenaline had faded, leaving behind the hollow shell of a man who had spent four years living a lie he thought was protecting the woman he loved.
"Claire," he whispered, his voice trembling so violently he could barely form the syllables. "What do you want me to do?"
I looked at him—really looked at him.
The man who had hidden me away. The man who had put another woman in our home. But also the man who had fallen to his knees and wept in terror at the thought of hurting me, the man who had tackled an assassin to the ground to keep a hand off me.
"I want the keys to your Manhattan penthouse, Vincent," I said calmly.
He blinked, stunned. "What?"
May you like
"I want the keys," I repeated. "And by eight o'clock tomorrow morning, I want Victoria and every trace of her existence removed from that building. Because tomorrow, the real Mrs. Vance is taking her seat."
***
