Chapter 116 - The Vault at Mount Royal
By dawn on December thirtieth, the international legal machine had turned with ruthless efficiency. Inside a secure conference room overlooking the snow-covered slopes of Mount Royal, a battery of Canadian crown prosecutors, Swiss trust attorneys, and federal investigators sat across from Emma and Claire.
The screens along the wall displayed the cascading collapse of Victor Vance’s global network.
"Victor’s offshore entities in the Cayman Islands and Liechtenstein have been placed into judicial receivership," explained Crown Prosecutor Marianne Fontaine, sliding a thick binder across the oak table. "Between the human trafficking charges, attempted kidnapping, extortion, and the financial embezzlement spanning three decades, Victor will die behind bars in a maximum-security penitentiary. He will never touch a cent of Vance capital again."
Emma glanced through the financial declarations. The numbers were staggering—commercial shipping terminals in Halifax, luxury real estate in Manhattan, private equity holdings across Western Europe. It was an empire built on greed, secrecy, and emotional cruelty.
"And Eleanor?" Emma asked, her voice calm but resolute. "Where is she now?"
Fontaine’s expression hardened. "Your mother was arrested at her estate in Willow Creek late last night by New York State Police and federal marshals. When the warrants were served, she attempted to burn the secondary tax records in her parlor fireplace, but the agents intervened. She is currently being held at the federal detention facility in Albany, without bail."
Claire leaned forward, a bitter smile touching her lips. "How did she take it?"
"She demanded to speak to her personal attorneys, claimed the entire system was corrupt, and insisted she was the rightful matriarch of Vance Holdings," Fontaine replied dryly. "When the arresting officer informed her that her accounts were frozen and her defense would have to be handled by a court-appointed public defender, she suffered a minor hypertensive episode. She has spent the last eight hours begging the prison warden to call your private line."
Emma looked out the tall glass windows at the pale winter sun rising over Montreal. "She doesn't get to call me. She called my child a burden. As far as I am concerned, Eleanor Vance is a stranger who lives in a cage of her own making."
"There is one final matter," Sterling said, stepping forward with an antique mahogany box. "This was recovered from the primary safety deposit box in Geneva. It was left by your grandfather, specifically marked for the day the false matriarchy fell."
May you like
Emma opened the box. Resting on velvet was an old, silver pocket watch, its hands stopped at eleven-fifty-nine, and a single handwritten note written on yellowed parchment.
***
