Chapter 97 - The Shattered Dynasty
"No," Margaret Sterling said.
Her voice was soft, but it carried an astonishing, unyielding weight. She shook off the arms of the two security guards with a sudden, sharp jerk of her shoulders. Weak as she was, her posture straightened, revealing the bloodline of an aristocratic family that had ruled Chicago long before Thomas Vance ever bought his first tailored suit.
"Margaret, don't be a fool," Thomas warned, his eyes darkening dangerously. "Your life depends on the Swiss verification."
"My life ended thirty years ago when you put me on that train to Elgin, Thomas," Margaret said, her grey eyes cutting into him like diamond saws. "You kept me alive like a captive prize bull, waiting for the bearer maturity date. You told me my baby died at birth. For twenty years, you let me believe my son was buried in a pauper's grave in Cook County!"
She turned her gaze back to me, tears brimming in her eyes, spilling over her weathered cheeks.
"I found out he was alive three months ago," Margaret whispered, her voice cracking with fierce emotion. "When Julian’s corporate audit triggered an automated notification on the old Sterling rail-line accounts. I saw his name on the terminal screen in Maine: *Julian Vance, Lead Forensic Auditor*. I knew then. I knew you had stolen him, Thomas. And I swore to God I would die before I let you touch another dollar of my family's heritage."
"You senile old bitch," Eleanor screeched from the stairs.
In a flash of pure, unhinged madness, Eleanor raised the silver revolver, aiming it directly at Margaret’s chest.
"Eleanor, no!" Thomas shouted, lunging forward—not out of mercy, but out of panic for his ninety-million-dollar payout.
*BANG.*
The gunshot deafened the foyer.
The bullet didn't strike Margaret.
Beatrice had moved. With an instinctive, desperate lunge, Beatrice threw herself into Eleanor’s legs on the staircase. Eleanor tumbled down the marble steps, screaming as the gun clattered against the floor, discharging a second time into the ceiling, shattering a massive crystal pendant that rained glittering glass down upon the foyer.
"Clara! Move!" I shouted.
Chaos erupted in the grand entrance. Clara drew her weapon, firing two rapid, suppressed shots into the knees of the lead security contractor who was reaching for his carbine. The man collapsed with a howl of pain. The other guard drew his weapon, but Clara slammed into him, driving him against the grand piano in the corner.
Thomas dove for the fallen revolver on the marble floor.
I was faster.
Thirty years of cold, calculated endurance—thirty years of being told I was unworthy, thirty years of paying for a sister’s greed and a mother’s venom—coalesced into a single, explosive motion. I kicked the revolver across the floor, sending it spinning into the fireplace, and drove my shoulder hard into Thomas Vance’s chest.
We crashed to the floor, rolling across the shards of broken crystal. Thomas fought with the desperate, vicious strength of a cornered beast, clawing at my eyes, his knuckles slamming into my jaw.
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"You owe me everything!" Thomas snarled, his breath hot against my face. "I gave you life! I built you into a master auditor!"
"You didn't build me," I grunted through clenched teeth, catching his right wrist, twisting it violently until the bone clicked, pinning him against the floor with my entire body weight. "You were just the thief who audited his own funeral!"
