Chapter 8 - The Betrayal Within Betrayal
The federal holding facility in Central Falls was built of poured gray concrete, reinforced steel mesh, and bulletproof glass that hummed with the high-voltage perimeter fences outside.
Julian Vance sat at the stainless-steel table in Interview Room C, wearing a bright orange jumpsuit that was three sizes too large for his once-athletic frame. His bespoke haircut was gone, replaced by a ragged, uneven buzz cut given to him by a prison barber. His aristocratic jawline was covered in a patchy, graying beard, and his hands—once adorned with platinum cufflinks and gold timepieces—trembled constantly against the cold metal tabletop.
The heavy steel door buzzed, unlocked, and swung open.
Julian jumped to his feet, a desperate, pathetic spark of hope lighting his sunken eyes. "Chloe? Did Chloe come?"
It was not Chloe.
It was Harold Sterling, flanked by an appointed federal public defender named David Miller. Sterling didn't look like an expensive litigator anymore; he carried a worn vinyl briefcase, his tie crooked, his face gray with exhaustion.
"Sit down, Julian," Sterling said, dropping heavily onto the aluminum stool opposite him.
Julian sank back down, grabbing the edge of the table. "Where is she? I told you to bring Chloe! She’s carrying my child! She needs to be at the press conferences! We have to tell the public about Clara’s vindictive smear campaign! Chloe can tell them that Clara attacked her first—"
"Julian, shut up," Sterling snapped, rubbing his temples with two ink-stained fingers. "Just shut your mouth."
Julian blinked, stunned by the absolute lack of deference in his lawyer's voice. "How dare you speak to me like that? I am paying you five thousand dollars an hour—"
"You aren't paying me anything," Sterling said coldly. "The federal government seized my retainer yesterday morning under the proceeds-of-crime statutes. I am only here today because the bar association requires me to formally hand over your case files to Mr. Miller here, who is your court-appointed public defender."
Julian’s face went white. "Court-appointed? Me? I’m a Vance! I don't use public defenders!"
"You aren't a Vance anymore, Julian," Miller, the public defender, said quietly, opening a legal pad. "The Vance estate has a net worth of negative forty-eight million dollars after federal tax liens, restitution judgments, and creditor claims. Your father’s properties are being auctioned on the courthouse steps next Tuesday. Your mother is currently in a psychiatric evaluation unit at Framingham after attempting to assault a federal guard. You are indigent."
Julian’s breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps. "Chloe... Chloe still has the Beacon Hill brownstone. She has the jewelry. We can sell the diamonds—"
Sterling let out a dry, bitter laugh that sounded like dry leaves scraping across concrete.
"Chloe made a deal with the U.S. Attorney three weeks ago, you idiot," Sterling said. "She signed an immunity agreement. She gave them every text message, every voicemail, every encrypted voice note you ever sent her."
Julian froze. "What?"
Sterling leaned across the table, his eyes hard and merciless.
"And she isn't pregnant, Julian."
The room seemed to tilt beneath Julian’s feet. "No. No, that’s a lie. She told me... she took the test in front of me at the Ritz..."
"She bought a positive pregnancy test online for forty dollars," Sterling said, shaking his head in disgust. "She confessed everything to the FBI. She was running a standard badger game on you. She knew your marriage was falling apart, she knew you were desperate to produce an heir to secure your father's trust fund, and she played you like a cheap fiddle. She took four hundred thousand dollars of your laundered cash, bought herself an apartment in Miami, and left you holding an attempted murder charge."
Julian stared at the steel tabletop. The reality crashed through his sociopathic delusions like a freight train hitting a cardboard wall.
There was no heir.
There was no loyal mistress.
There was no empire, no trust fund, no private jets, no social club, no family.
There was only this windowless, ten-by-ten concrete box, an orange jumpsuit that smelled of institutional bleach, and a lifetime behind steel bars.
Julian buried his face in his trembling, cuffed hands and began to weep. It was not the noble, tragic weeping of a fallen prince; it was the high-pitched, sniveling sob of a spoiled child who had finally realized that the world would not bend to his tantrums.
"I want to see Clara," Julian sobbed, tears and mucus dripping between his fingers onto the table. "Please. Tell Clara to come see me. She loved me. She spent four years trying to please me. If I talk to her... if I apologize... she’ll drop the charges. She wouldn't let the father of her child rot in prison! Tell her I’ll sign whatever she wants! Just let me see my wife!"
Miller looked at Julian with an expression of profound, unadulterated pity—the kind of pity one reserved for a rabid dog that had finally been cornered in an alley.
"Ms. Danvers was granted a permanent lifetime order of protection against you two hours ago, Mr. Vance," Miller said, closing his legal pad with a sharp snap. "If you write her a letter, if you attempt to contact her through a third party, or if you even speak her name within earshot of a correctional officer, your security classification will be upgraded to solitary confinement."
Miller stood up, knocking on the heavy steel door to be let out.
May you like
"Your trial begins in four months, Julian," Miller said without turning around. "My advice to you? Start getting used to the taste of instant oatmeal. Because you are never eating off bone china again."
***
