In Front of 280 Wedding Guests, My Father Called Me a Liar for Refusing to Give My Sister MY House, Then Grabbed Me and Hurled Me Into a Wall—He Thought He Could Silence Me Forever, Until One Guest’s Livestream Turned His Perfect Reputation Into a Nightmare… / Chapter 46 / 70

Chapter 46 - The Living Ghost

"Give me the stylus," Chloe said.

Her voice was steady. The trembling that had racked her frame since the terrace had completely vanished. She stepped forward, her hand outstretched, her face set in a look of cold, resolute defiance that was the mirror image of our mother’s.

"Chloe..." I began.

"No, Julian," she interrupted, turning to look at me, her eyes clear and unblinking. "For five years, I let Dad tell me who I was. I let him buy my clothes, pick my college, and choose the man I was supposed to marry. He turned me into a parasite because it made me easy to control. He made me demand your home because he wanted to see if he could make me destroy the only person in this family who actually cared about me."

She snatched the bronze stylus from the velvet tray, dipped the nib into the black ink, and pressed it hard against the parchment.

With a swift, slashing motion, she signed her full legal name across the second line: *Chloe Alexandra Sterling.*

She slammed the stylus down onto the oak table, breathing heavily, looking up at me. "Your turn, Julian. Save your house by giving it away."

A faint, ironic smile touched my lips. She was right. The only way to keep the land safe from the vultures was to place it beyond the reach of any man’s private greed.

I picked up the stylus. The weight of the bronze felt balanced, heavy with history. I leaned over the table, beneath the amber glow of the CRT screens, and scrawled my name across the primary line: *Julian Thomas Sterling.*

Eleanor stepped forward immediately. She did not hesitate. Without a word, she signed the final line: *Eleanor Vance Sterling.*

Marcus blinked, staring at the signature. "Vance? Mrs. Sterling... you were..."

"Your father’s second cousin, Marcus," Eleanor said softly, setting the stylus down. "The land was always held in joint survivorship between our families. Arthur married me to steal the title. He thought he could erase the Vance family from the deed with a handful of corporate buyouts and forged death certificates. But the covenant was ironclad."

A deafening metallic roar tore through the tunnel outside.

On the monitor, the eight-inch steel hatch buckled inward with a shower of molten sparks. Heavy smoke poured through the opening as three tactical contractors in respirators shouldered their way into the vaulted corridor, weapons raised.

Behind them, his face blackened by soot, his eyes wide and bloodshot with maniacal fury, stepped Arthur Sterling.

He held a heavy, black semi-automatic pistol in his left hand, his face contorted in an expression of absolute, murderous desperation.

"He’s in the tunnel," Marcus said, moving instantly to the doorway of the library. He racked the slide of his tactical pistol, leaning against the steel frame of the inner blast door. "I'll hold the choke point. Julian, how do you transmit that document?"

"There is an automated digital micro-filming terminal in the secondary console," Eleanor said, rapidly flipping switches on a vintage transmission rack. "It scans the parchment, converts it to an encrypted shortwave packet, and broadcasts it across the state police emergency dispatch frequency and the federal registrar’s receiver in Philadelphia. Once that packet transmits, the conveyance is legally binding across thirty-six global registries."

"How long to transmit?" I asked, rushing to her side.

"Ninety seconds," Eleanor said, pressing a heavy red lever down.

A mechanical hum filled the room. A bright beam of white light swept across the morocco-bound ledger, capturing the three signatures in high-resolution digital format. On the transmission rack, a set of vacuum tubes glowed brilliant orange, a high-frequency whistle signaling the initiation of the shortwave carrier wave.

"Fifty seconds," Eleanor said, staring at the signal strength meter.

A burst of automatic gunfire erupted in the outer corridor.

The heavy, hollow *crack-crack-crack* of Marcus’s pistol answered immediately, the high-caliber rounds echoing off the concrete walls like thunderclaps.

"Marcus!" I screamed.

"Get behind the secondary bulkhead!" Marcus roared back, his voice strained over the din of ricochets. "Julian, they have body armor and tactical suppressors! They aren't trying to capture anyone! The contractors have orders to execute every living person in this room!"

A round tore through the open blast doorway, smashing into the mahogany bookshelf behind me, sending shattered splinters of centuries-old oak raining down on the table.

Then, through the drifting smoke of the outer corridor, a voice bellowed—a voice I had known every single day of my life, stripped of its aristocratic polish, reduced to the raw, snarling hatred of a dying beast.