Chapter 3 - Champagne in Borrowed Glasses
The imported Italian marble foyer of Villa Mariposa echoed with the sound of high heels and uproarious laughter.
Olivia Vance, wearing a brand-new emerald silk gown that Rebecca had inadvertently funded through her pilfered accounts, spun around the two-story atrium. In her right hand was a crystal flute filled with Dom Pérignon; in her left, a swatch of velvet interior fabric.
"Greg! Look at this sight line!" Olivia squealed, waving toward the floor-to-ceiling glass wall that framed the Pacific Ocean. "If we tear down that ridiculous teak partition Rebecca built for her naval medals, we can put a five-tier marble fountain right here. It’ll open up the entire western wing!"
Greg Vance, a thirty-four-year-old man with slicked-back thinning hair and an expensive linen blazer that strained over his midsection, sank into Rebecca’s custom leather sectional. He placed his muddy boat loafers directly onto the bleached white oak coffee table.
"I told you, babe," Greg smirked, lighting a cigar despite the strict no-smoking signs Rebecca had mounted by the HVAC intakes. "Your sister is a grunt. She’s got brass on her shoulders, but zero vision. She spent six years living in this place like it was a damn barracks. Steel, books, framed naval charts. It felt like a museum for dead sailors."
From the top of the floating glass staircase, Harold Vance descended with the slow, self-satisfied swagger of an emperor inspecting newly annexed territory. He was wearing an Italian blazer he had bought with money Rebecca had wired three weeks ago for his "experimental knee treatments."
"Let her be bitter," Harold boomed, adjusting his cuff links. "She chose the Navy over this family. For sixteen years, while you were here giving me grandchildren and supporting the Vance name, where was Rebecca? Floating on an aircraft carrier thousands of miles away. She thought she could buy our respect with a monthly stipend and a few kind letters."
"Did she say anything when she left, Dad?" Olivia asked, taking another sip of champagne. A tiny flicker of apprehension crossed her features. "She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She just... smiled."
Harold waved his hand dismissively, sitting down at the head of the dining table that Rebecca had personally commissioned from a master craftsman in Kyoto. "That’s her military posturing, Olivia. They teach them to bottle it up. She knows she’s beaten. I am her father. I have the papers. Marcus confirmed the county accepted the quitclaim this morning. By law, this house belongs to the Vance Trust, and as sole trustee, I have designated you and Greg as the primary tenants with total control."
At that moment, Evelyn floated into the room carrying a silver platter of prosciutto-wrapped figs. The twenty-four-karat gold chain around her neck gleamed in the recessed LED lighting—the very necklace that Rebecca’s mother, Margaret, had worn on her wedding day, a family heirloom dating back four generations.
"Harold, darling," Evelyn cooed, running her manicured fingers across the counter. "I’ve already contacted the movers. All of Rebecca’s junk—her uniforms, her operational journals, those ghastly wooden plaques from her deployments—I’ve had the housekeepers box them up."
"Where did you put them?" Olivia asked casually.
"Out by the secondary service garage, behind the trash compactors," Evelyn replied with a delicate shrug. "If she wants them, she can send a private courier to haul them to the dump. I’m having the guest bedrooms completely cleared out for the children’s playroom by tomorrow afternoon."
"Should we worry about her coming back before Sunday?" Greg asked, blowing a thick ring of blue smoke toward the high ceiling. "She’s got that military clearance thing. What if she calls the local cops?"
Harold laughed—a harsh, barking sound that rattled the crystal flutes. "The San Diego police? What are they going to do against a registered county title and a notarized Power of Attorney? Cops don't settle civil property disputes. They’ll look at the paperwork, tell her it’s a family probate matter, and tell her to file a motion in municipal court. And by the time her fancy military lawyers get a hearing date six months from now, we will have taken out a two-million-dollar equity line of credit on this house to finance Greg’s harbor project."
Olivia clapped her hands in delight. "A two-million-dollar line of credit? Dad, you didn't tell me!"
"I keep my promises to my real children," Harold said with paternal grandeur, raising his glass. "Rebecca made the mistake of thinking her duty ended when she wired money. She forgot who gave her life. To our family. To Villa Mariposa!"
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"To Villa Mariposa!" they chimed together.
None of them noticed the microscopic, red LED indicator recessed into the smoke detector directly above their heads. None of them knew that six miles away, in a darkened office at the Point Loma Naval Submarine Base, every syllable, every laugh, and every admission of forged filings was being recorded with dual-channel military-grade encryption directly onto a secure Department of Defense server.
