Chapter 13 - Desperation in the Gutter
Julian Vance stared at the two burly men standing in the marble hallway outside his front door. He was still wearing the rumpled tuxedo from the night before, his silk bow tie undone, his eyes bloodshot and frantic.
"Do you have any idea who I am?" Julian snarled, his voice cracking with hysteria. "I am Julian Vance! My grandfather founded the company that built half this city! You can't touch a single piece of furniture in this building!"
The lead bailiff didn't even blink. He held up an official repossession writ bearing the unmistakable corporate seal of Vance Holdings and the prominent, sweeping signature of Evelyn Ross-Vance.
"Mr. Vance, this residential property is registered under Vance Holdings Asset Management Group," the bailiff recited in a monotone voice. "By decree of the newly appointed Chief Executive Officer and Chairman of the Board, this lease has been terminated effective immediately due to non-payment and corporate restructuring. You have fifteen minutes to collect your essential personal effects. Anything left behind will be placed in public auction."
"Evelyn... that bitter, scheming witch!" Julian screamed, lunging forward, but the second officer took a firm step and planted a heavy hand against his chest, shoving him back inside the foyer.
"Fifteen minutes, Mr. Vance. Don't make us call the precinct."
Julian stumbled backward, knocking over an antique porcelain vase that shattered across the Italian tile. For the first time in his thirty-four years of pampered existence, true terror sank its claws into his spine. He lunged for his smartphone, frantically dialing the numbers of his closest friends—the hedge fund heirs, the country club companions, the men who had raised glasses with him while mocking Evelyn when she had been cast out.
*The number you have dialed is no longer in service.*
*Voicemail is full.*
*Call rejected.*
Every single one. The social parasites who had fed off his family's wealth had abandoned him the second the financial blood ran dry.
Fifteen minutes later, Julian Vance found himself standing on the pavement of Michigan Avenue with a single leather duffel bag. A blustery autumn wind whipped through the street, tearing at his unbuttoned shirt. Across the street, the massive digital billboard atop Vance Tower flickered, flashing a live broadcast of Evelyn addressing the Chicago Business Forum, radiant, commanding, and untouchable.
May you like
He ground his teeth until they ached. "This isn't over, Evelyn," he hissed into the cold wind. "You think you can take my birthright? I'll drag you down with me if it's the last thing I ever do."
***
