Chapter 1 - The Hospice on 4th Street
I stared at the glowing screen of my phone until the screen blurred. My father’s signature. Arthur Vance, the ruthless titan of Wall Street, a man who measured human life in profit margins, was on this birth certificate.
I didn't call my driver. I flagged the nearest yellow cab, shoved a hundred-dollar bill at the driver, and read the address of the hospice from the metadata in the photo.
St. Jude’s Palliative Care was a crumbling brick building in Queens, a stark contrast to the glass and steel towers my family owned in Manhattan. The smell of bleach and stale soup hit me the moment I walked through the sliding doors.
Room 412.
I pushed the door open. The rhythmic beep of a heart monitor was the only sound. In the bed lay Clara Sterling. She looked impossibly fragile, her skin translucent, but her eyes—a striking, piercing blue—were exactly like mine.
"You came," she whispered, her voice raspy.
I stepped closer, my heart pounding against my ribs. "Who are you?" I demanded, though my voice broke. "Why does my father’s name..."
"Because he is my father, too," Clara said, coughing weakly. "He had a secret life before he married your mother, Julian. He loved my mother, Elena Sterling. But the Sterling family lost their money in the crash of '87. Your father needed capital to start Vance Enterprises, so he abandoned us and married into your mother's wealth."
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I felt the blood drain from my face. "I have a sister?"
"Half-sister," Clara corrected with a sad smile. "And a niece. Lily doesn't know. I've spent my whole life hiding from him. Arthur Vance destroys everything he touches. But I'm out of time, Julian. And Lily has no one else."
