Chapter 2 - The Panic of the Elite
Beatrice’s designer heels scraped against the floorboards as she lunged toward her son, her face twisted in a mixture of aristocratic outrage and dawning terror. “Arthur! Who is that on the phone? What sort of sick prank is this girl pulling?”
“Shut up, Mother!” Arthur hissed, his voice cracking as he backed away from me. He looked wildly around the kitchen, his eyes darting from the pool of blood staining the immaculate hardwood to the phone still broadcasting my father’s heavy, measured breathing on the other end of the line. “It’s not a prank. She’s... she’s William Vance’s daughter.”
Beatrice froze, her manicured hand flying to her pearl necklace. “William Vance? The Attorney General? That’s impossible! She told us her parents were dead! She left the next-of-kin paperwork blank!”
“I left it blank because of security protocols,” I said, leaning my back against the base cabinets as a wave of dizziness washed over me. I pressed a clean linen towel against my legs, trying to slow the bleeding. “My father was the Chief U.S. Attorney targeting organized crime when I was in college. I lived under a protected identity so I wouldn't be leveraged against him. I wanted a normal life. I wanted a husband who loved me for me, not for my family’s influence.”
“Elena, please,” Arthur stammered, dropping to his knees—not to help me, but to bring his face level with the phone’s microphone. “Mr. Attorney General, sir, I swear to you this was an accident. My mother didn’t mean to push her. It was a misunderstanding over the seating arrangements! I’m a senior partner at Vanguard & Sterling—we handle corporate defense for the Department of Justice! You know my managing partner, Richard Sterling!”
“Richard Sterling is currently dining in your formal room, isn't he?” my father’s voice came back, cold as liquid nitrogen. “I can hear the background chatter through the open door. Put him on the line.”
Arthur swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing violently. He stood up on shaky legs and walked toward the dining room threshold like a man walking to the gallows.
In the dining room, twenty of the city’s most elite attorneys and their wives were sitting in rigid, uncomfortable silence. The senior managing partner, Richard Sterling—a man who usually commanded any room he entered—was staring at the kitchen doorway with wide, apprehensive eyes.
“Richard,” Arthur squeaked, holding the phone out with a trembling hand. “It’s... it’s for you.”
Richard stood up slowly, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin. He walked over and took the device, frowning. “This is Richard Sterling.”
“Richard,” my father said, his voice projecting clearly into the silent dining room. “This is William Vance. You are currently sitting in a house where my pregnant daughter was physically assaulted and denied emergency medical care to protect your firm's social standing.”
Richard’s face drained of color so fast his tan seemed to wash away. “Mr. Attorney General... sir... I had absolutely no idea—”
May you like
“Evacuate your people from that residence immediately,” my father commanded. “Anyone who remains in that house when the federal marshals arrive will be named as an accessory to domestic battery and obstruction of justice. Your firm’s federal contracts are under review as of thirty seconds ago.”
Richard dropped the phone onto the dining table as if it were on fire. He didn't say goodbye to Arthur. He didn't even grab his coat. He turned to the table of executives and yelled one word: “Out!”
