Chapter 11 - The Trap is Sprung
At nine-fifteen on Wednesday morning, the Medina estate was silent as a tomb. The housekeepers had been dismissed for the day under the pretense of a plumbing repair, and Marcus’s security team was concealed in the wooded perimeter surrounding the property, their vehicles hidden inside the subterranean garage.
In the master suite on the second floor, the stage was set.
Julian lay on the king-sized bed, wearing his dark silk pajamas, his eyes closed and his breathing intentionally slowed. Clara had applied a thin layer of pale foundation powder to his cheekbones and forehead to simulate the gray, ashen pallor of hemorrhagic shock, and a small splash of synthetic theatrical blood was smeared across the collar of his gown and the white silk pillowcase beneath his head.
The bedside cardiac monitor was active, but Clara had manually adjusted the alarm thresholds and attached a damp towel to the grounding lead, causing the digital display to show a weak, erratic pulse of forty-five beats per minute accompanied by a flashing red low-pressure warning.
Clara stood by the side of the bed, her medical bag open on the nightstand, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She checked her watch: 9:42 AM. It had been twenty-five minutes since she had made the panicked phone call to David Vance's private line.
Suddenly, the heavy oak front doors of the estate downstairs opened with a loud, echoing slam that vibrated through the floorboards.
Footsteps—hurried, heavy, and solitary—began ascending the floating glass staircase at a dead sprint.
Clara took a deep breath, forcing tears into her eyes by staring directly at the bright overhead recessed lighting until they stung, and slumped over Julian’s chest just as the master bedroom doors were pushed violently open.
David Vance stood in the doorway, breathing heavily, his cashmere overcoat unbuttoned, his eyes darting frantically around the room until they landed on the bed. When he saw the blood on the pillowcase and the flashing red numbers on the telemetry monitor, a look of profound, unmistakable relief washed over his face—a dark, triumphant relaxation of his shoulders that made Clara feel physically sick.
"Clara!" David gasped, stepping into the room and walking toward the bed, playing the concerned brother with theatrical urgency. "What happened? I came as fast as I could! Is he conscious?"
"He... he won't wake up!" Clara sobbed, playing her part to perfection as she backed away from the mattress, wringing her hands together. "He took his morning pills at eight, and thirty minutes later he started coughing up blood! His blood pressure is dropping into the fifties, Mr. Vance! His internal graft must have ruptured! We have to call an ambulance right now!"
"No! No ambulance!" David commanded sharply, stepping between Clara and the bedside telephone. He looked down at Julian’s motionless form, his eyes tracing the pale powder on his brother’s skin and the weak, thready rhythm on the monitor. "If we call 911, the paramedics will declare him dead on the scene, and the police will seal the estate for an investigation! The stock will crash forty percent before the afternoon bell!"
"He’s dying!" Clara cried out, moving as if to reach for her cell phone in her pocket. "I don't care about the stock price! I am a medical professional—I am calling the paramedics!"
Before she could touch her pocket, David spun around, his hand shooting out to grab her by the wrist with a brutal, bruising force that made her gasp. His face was inches from hers, stripped entirely of his executive polish, revealing the cold, sociopathic cruelty beneath.
"You aren't calling anyone, you little garbage maid," David snarled, his grip tightening until her fingers went numb. "You're going to stand right there and watch the clock for ten minutes until that monitor goes flat. And then you are going to sign a private clinical affidavit stating that Julian suffered a spontaneous, natural arterial rupture due to his genetic condition. If you do that, I will double the forty-five-thousand-dollar bonus in your bank account by tonight. If you don't... I will make sure the medical examiner finds traces of industrial Warfarin in your medical bag, and you will spend the next thirty years in a women's prison for murdering your employer."
"That is a fascinating legal strategy, David," a low, resonant voice spoke from the bed behind him. "But I think your general counsel might find a few procedural flaws in it."
David froze. His hand loosened on Clara’s wrist as the blood drained entirely from his face, leaving his skin the color of wet ash.
He turned his head slowly toward the mattress.
Julian Vance was sitting upright against the pillows. The ashen powder on his face couldn't hide the absolute, terrifying hellfire burning in his storm-cloud eyes. He reached up with his left hand, calmly peeled the telemetry leads off his chest, and wiped the synthetic blood from his collar with a silk handkerchief.
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"Julian..." David whispered, stumbling backward away from Clara as if he had just seen a ghost rise from the grave. "You're... you're not bleeding."
"No," Julian said, swinging his legs off the side of the bed and standing up to his full six-foot-two height, towering over his older brother with an intimidating, predatory grace. "I'm not bleeding, David. But you are about to."
