Chapter 25 - The Puppet Master's Ultimatum
By noon, the blizzard had swept south, turning Manhattan into a gridlocked fortress of gray slush and wailing sirens.
I stood in the corner office on the fifty-second floor of the Lewis Global headquarters on Park Avenue. The building was eerily quiet. Downstairs, the security lobby was manned not by our usual private firm, but by private court-appointed receivers wearing dark suits and lanyards, auditing every hard drive, every file cabinet, and every financial ledger.
Sterling Lewis sat behind my desk—the desk that had once belonged to him forty years ago, which I had reclaimed from my father, and which he had now occupied as if the last quarter-century were merely a long weekend.
Before him lay the settlement documents, waiting for my signature.
Beside him stood Arthur and Eleanor, my parents, looking like obedient court lackeys. Arthur had a glass of scotch in his hand despite the midday hour; Eleanor was admiring the view of Central Park, already planning the social parties she would host once the family's "rightful king" was restored.
And by the window stood Julian, a smirk plastered across his face, tossing a small silver key in his palm. The key to the nursery at Highwood.
"The marshals are at the gates, Clara," Julian said, his voice dripping with triumphant venom. "One call from me, and they breach the doors. They take Christian and Maya. They put them in state child protective services pending the emergency custody hearing on Monday. Do you really want your seven-year-old twins sleeping on cots in a county facility while the press takes photos of them through the chain-link fence?"
I walked to the floor-to-ceiling glass, looking out over the city.
"You really think you've won, don't you, Julian?" I said softly.
"I don't think, Clara. I know," Julian sneered, stepping closer, his breath hot against my cheek. "You were brilliant. I'll give you that. You almost put me away for life. But you forgot one thing: you're a Lewis. And in this family, the monster at the top always eats the monster at the bottom. Sterling built this world. You were just living in it."
I turned away from the window and looked at Sterling.
The old man had not moved. His hands were clasped over the gold-tipped cane resting between his knees. "Sign the papers, Clara. End the theater. You have fought magnificently, but the law is the law. The 1998 charter supersedes everything. You have no legal standing."
"The 1998 charter," I said, walking slowly toward the desk, "was signed under the laws of the State of New York by a living corporate entity."
"Precisely," Sterling murmured. "An entity that is sitting right before you."
"A living corporate entity," I repeated, reaching into my leather briefcase and pulling out three sheets of high-resolution photographic printouts, "who is currently classified under Title 18 of the United States Code as an active, non-expiring fugitive from justice for maritime homicide and high treason."
May you like
I dropped the photographs onto the desk, directly over the settlement papers.
Sterling’s cold blue eyes shifted downward. For the first time since he had stepped out of the blizzard at Highwood, the muscle in his left jaw twitched.
