Chapter 4 - The Anatomy of a Parasite
Richard’s hands were shaking so severely that the heavy legal parchment rattled like dry leaves in a winter gale. He flipped the divider, his gaze dropping to the spreadsheets, the wire transfer receipts, and the sworn affidavits stamped with the seal of the New York County Supreme Court.
"What is that?" Bellamy demanded, reaching out to tear the page from her father’s hands.
Richard gripped the folder tight, pulling it away from her, his jowls sagging as if the gravity in the room had doubled. "Julian... what did you do?" he whispered hoarsely.
Julian froze, the wineglass halfway to his mouth. "What are you looking at me for? I haven't done anything!"
"Tab four contains the forensic audit of the Vance Art Foundation," Byron said. He pulled out a dining chair next to me and sat down, leaning his elbows on the polished wood, his fingers loosely interlaced. "Six months ago, the accounting firm flagged an anomaly. Bellamy had requested three separate discretionary draws totaling 2.4 million dollars, allegedly for charitable acquisitions of emerging European painters."
Bellamy took another involuntary step backward, bumping against the sideboard. The crystal decanter behind her clinked against a silver tray.
"Except the European painters don't exist," Byron continued, his tone methodical, like a prosecutor presenting a closing argument after months of evidence. "The offshore shell company that received the funds was registered in Belize under the name 'Apex Horizon Capital.' The sole beneficial owner of Apex Horizon is Julian Vance."
"Julian!" Evelyn hissed, her patrician composure cracking down the middle.
"He was trying to cover his short positions on tech futures," Byron said. "He borrowed money from loan sharks in Queens who don't care about the Vance family pedigree. They care about broken limbs. And my wife—the woman who treats my mother like an illiterate scullery maid—used my corporate credit line to bail out her degenerate brother."
The room seemed to shrink. Julian’s skin turned the color of curdled milk. He stared at his father, his mouth hanging open, unable to string two syllables together.
"You spied on me?" Bellamy whispered, horror and betrayal competing in her voice. "You hired private investigators to dig through my accounts?"
"I protect my family," Byron said. "Real family. Not freeloaders who look down on the hand that feeds them while simultaneously picking its pockets."
He looked up at Evelyn, whose emerald brooch seemed to weigh heavily against her withered collarbone.
"For two years, Evelyn, you’ve told every dinner party in Greenwich that Byron Sterling was lucky to marry into old blood. You hinted to the board of the Metropolitan Museum that my origins were 'humble'—a delicate euphemism for trash. You sat at my table, drank my cellar dry, and allowed your daughter to treat my mother like trash."
"Byron, you don't understand the pressures our family was facing," Evelyn said, her aristocratic facade peeling away to reveal naked, desperate terror. "Richard’s firm... the restructuring didn't go as planned. We were going to reimburse the trust. We had every intention of making it whole."
"You couldn't reimburse a grocery bill without my signature on the guarantee," Byron said flatly.
He reached into the inside pocket of his charcoal suit coat and produced a second, smaller document—a single folded sheet of cream-colored stationery.
"This is an eviction notice," Byron stated.
Bellamy gasped, her hand flying to her throat. "You can't evict me! I am your wife!"
"You are currently an unauthorized resident on property owned exclusively by the Lorna Sterling Foundation," Byron clarified, his voice dropping into a register so cold it made the hair on my arms stand up. "Our prenuptial agreement specifically stipulates that any unauthorized diversion of corporate funds exceeding one million dollars constitutes immediate grounds for default, voiding all spousal maintenance, residential rights, and equity claims."
May you like
He laid the cream paper squarely on top of the open folder.
"You have until midnight to pack your clothes, Bellamy. Your personal jewelry, purchased prior to our marriage, is yours. Everything else—every bag, every coat, every diamond bought with funds routed through my holding company—remains in this house."
