Chapter 30 - The Reckoning
Arthur Vance was not on the yacht. When Marcus’s team breached the vessel, they found only hired crew and duffel bags full of bearer bonds.
Arthur had retreated into his private manor atop the island’s highest cliff, barricading himself in his third-floor study.
I kicked the double mahogany doors open.
The room was vast, lined with antique books, a roaring stone fireplace, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the raging ocean below.
Arthur Vance was sitting behind his massive desk, an open bottle of scotch in front of him, a silver revolver resting beside his trembling hand. He had aged ten years in six hours. His hair was disheveled, his silk tie undone, the regal arrogance stripped away to reveal a cornered, pathetic rat.
"Claire," he croaked, raising his eyes. "You came."
"Pick up the gun, Arthur," I said, my voice level, hollow, and deadly. "Pick it up and give me a reason."
He let out a raspy, bitter laugh, pouring himself another glass with shaking fingers. "You think you've won? Look out that window, Claire. The Vance name, the empire I spent fifty years building—gone in a single afternoon because of your spite."
"You killed my husband in a ditch. You kidnapped my babies. You made me bury dirt." I stepped closer, the muzzle of my pistol trained squarely between his eyes. "You don't get to talk about spite."
"I built an empire for this family!" he roared, slamming his fist onto the wood. "Ethan was an outsider! An arrogant upstart who refused to yield his tech to the family board! I gave you life, Claire! Everything you have, everything you ever were, belonged to me!"
"I am not your daughter," I whispered. "I haven't been since the day you chose a birthday party over three graves."
He looked at my eyes, and for the first time in my life, I saw genuine, unadulterated terror wash over Arthur Vance’s face. He realized there was no negotiation. No plea, no bribe, no appeal to blood would save him.
Slowly, his trembling hand reached toward the silver revolver.
"I won't spend my life in a cage," Arthur hissed.
"Then die like a coward," I said.
He grabbed the grip. I fired.
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The bullet struck his shoulder, spinning him violently out of his leather chair and knocking the revolver across the parquet floor. He fell against the heavy oak sideboard, screaming in agony, clutching the wound as dark blood bubbled through his fingers.
"A bullet is too clean for you, Arthur," I said, walking over and kicking the gun out of reach. "You are going to spend the rest of your miserable life in a maximum-security penitentiary, watching through a rusted screen while every dollar you ever hoarded is used to fund trauma foundations in Ethan's and my children's names."
