Chapter 64 - The Voice of Eleanor
The jet descended through the low fog over Northern New Jersey. Rain streaked across the oval windows as the runway lights of Teterboro appeared in the dark below.
Inside the cabin, the vintage cassette player that Ethan’s team had sourced sat on the table between them. The small red light glowed steadily. The tape had been rewound to the beginning.
"Are you ready?" Julian asked gently, his hand hovering over the play button.
Clara took a slow breath, steadying herself against the armrest. Her unborn baby shifted again, heavy and restless against her ribs. She looked at Ethan. His face was like stone, but his hand on the table was clenched into a tight fist.
"Play it," Clara said.
Julian pressed the button.
A loud hiss of static filled the cabin, followed by the faint, rhythmic ticking of a clock. Then, a woman’s voice emerged from the speaker—soft, trembling with barely suppressed tears, yet carrying an aristocratic elegance that Clara recognized instantly. It was the voice that had sung her lullabies in the nursery on Fifth Avenue, but here, it was younger, fractured by an unimaginable agony.
*"This is Eleanor Pierce. The date is March twenty-second, nineteen eighty-eight. I am recording this from the guest room at forty-four Beacon Hill."*
Clara’s throat tightened violently. She leaned forward, her eyes locked on the spinning brown tape.
*"If you are listening to this, Richard... I pray you have forgiven me. By the time this tape is found, our boy will be far away, under the care of Marcus. I could not tell you the truth. If I told you what Arthur demanded, you would have fought him. You would have gone to trial. And with the forged balance sheets Arthur placed in your desk, you would have lost your freedom."*
A ragged breath sounded over the tape, followed by the muffled sound of weeping that was quickly stifled.
*"Arthur told me our baby would be raised without a name, an outcast. But I know Marcus Vance. Marcus is a good man trapped by his own cowardice. He promised me he would protect my son. Ethan... my sweet Ethan... if you ever hear this... know that every share of stock, every asset, every drop of blood in the Pierce name was preserved for you. Arthur thinks he won. He thinks he took my firstborn and broke my soul. But I have placed the true corporate seals with the Geneva notary under account number seven-four-zero-two."*
Ethan’s breathing remained shallow, but Clara saw a single drop of sweat trace down his temple.
*"Richard... Clara... if God grants us more children, love them as I loved the child ripped from my arms tonight. Do not let Arthur tear our family apart. Do not let him win."*
The recording clicked abruptly. The tape ran out of spool, slapping softly inside the plastic casing until Julian reached out and stopped the player.
Absolute silence filled the cabin.
Outside, the jet’s landing gear descended with a heavy mechanical clunk. The wheels touched the tarmac with a sharp screech and a shudder that vibrated through the floorboards.
Clara looked across at Ethan.
The billionaire who had brought Wall Street giants to their knees sat utterly motionless. When he finally looked up, his gray eyes were burning with an intensity so ferocious that Clara felt a cold shiver run down her spine.
"Geneva account seven-four-zero-two," Ethan said, his voice quiet, lethal, and deadly calm. "My personal offshore trust in Switzerland was opened under that exact number when I turned twenty-one. Marcus told me it was an anonymous bequest from a deceased client."
"It wasn't a client," Clara whispered, tears spilling over her lashes onto her cheeks. "It was our mother's trust. She prepared for this day thirty-six years ago."
Ethan stood up as the plane taxied toward the private hangar. He reached into his coat, pulled out the gold fountain pen he always carried, and slipped it into Clara’s hand.
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"Wipe your tears, Clara," Ethan said softly. "The sun rises in four hours. And Arthur Calloway has a board meeting to attend."
***
