Chapter 12 - Blood and WaterIf there is one thing I learned from my twelve years of a suffocating, loveless marriage, it is that panic is a useless emotion. When you are backed into a corner, you don't cower. You sharpen your knives.
The next morning, the Aspen sun was blindingly bright, reflecting off the fresh snow. Arthur and I were barricaded in the private study of our rented chalet. A roaring fire crackled in the hearth, but the room felt like a freezer.
“The Founders Trust clause is airtight,” Sarah Vance, my litigator, said via an encrypted video call from New York. “I spent all night reviewing the original 1970 charter. If Mia produces a DNA-verified heir to Julian Mercer, she gains immediate guardianship control over the two percent voting block until the child turns eighteen.”
“How long until the probate court recognizes the unborn child?” I demanded, pacing the length of the Persian rug.
“Alexander has already filed an emergency petition,” Sarah replied grimly. “He’s using his limitless capital to expedite the hearings. The court has ordered a non-invasive prenatal paternity test to be administered in two weeks. If it matches Julian’s DNA, the judge will grant a conditional transfer of the shares.”
“Two weeks,” Arthur muttered, staring into the fire, his knuckles white around his coffee mug. “Alexander is going to use Mia to bleed my fiancé dry, just to prove he can.”
“No, he’s not,” I said softly, stopping my pacing. I turned to look at Arthur and the video screen. “Mia is a grifter. She lies as easily as she breathes. She told Julian she loved him, then abandoned him the second the money dried up. Now, she’s magically three months pregnant just in time to seize a billion-dollar trust?”
“Claire, women lie about many things, but a court-ordered DNA test is impossible to fake,” Sarah warned.
“I don't think she plans to fake the DNA,” I murmured, my mind racing through the timeline. “Julian’s trial lasted a month. He was under intense federal scrutiny, his assets frozen, his passports seized. Mia was with him right up until the verdict, but she was also frequenting high-society clubs looking for her next mark. What if the timing is a lie?”
“You think it’s not Julian’s baby?” Arthur asked, looking up.
“I think Mia slept with Alexander, got pregnant, and realized the baby was useless unless she claimed it was Julian’s to trigger the trust,” I deduced, my eyes narrowing. “Or, she slept with someone else entirely. Either way, she’s playing Russian roulette with the paternity test, hoping she can bribe a lab technician before the court date.”
“If we can prove she’s lying before the court date, we don't just invalidate her claim to the trust,” Arthur said, a predatory smile slowly touching his lips. “We expose her fraud to Alexander. My brother is a sociopath, but he despises being made a fool of. If he realizes Mia is using a bastard child to manipulate his capital, he will destroy her himself.”
“I need to see Julian,” I declared, grabbing my designer winter coat.
“Claire, he’s in a federal penitentiary,” Arthur said, standing up.
“I know exactly where he is,” I replied coldly. “I put him there. And he is the only one who can give me the ammunition I need to blow Mia’s story out of the water.”
Twenty-four hours later, I walked into the sterile, fluorescent-lit visitor's room of the Allenwood Federal Correctional Complex in Pennsylvania. The air smelled of bleach and despair. I wore a tailored ivory trench coat, the physical manifestation of untouchable wealth and freedom, contrasting violently with the gray concrete walls.
The heavy steel door buzzed open. Julian was escorted in by a guard.
He wore an oversized khaki jumpsuit. His hair was thinning, his skin was sallow, and his eyes were hollow, haunted voids. The arrogant, bespoke billionaire who used to mock my ambition was completely, utterly erased.
He sat down on the metal stool, his hands cuffed to the table, and looked at me. A pathetic, broken whimper escaped his lips.
“Claire,” Julian choked out, tears instantly brimming in his eyes. “You came. You actually came.”
“I didn't come to absolve you, Julian,” I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “I came for the truth. And if you give it to me, I’ll ensure your commissary account is fully funded for the next fifteen years, and I’ll have Arthur arrange for a transfer to a minimum-security facility.”
Julian’s eyes widened with desperate, pathetic hope. “Anything. I’ll tell you anything.”
“Mia is pregnant,” I stated, watching his face closely. “She’s claiming it’s your child. She’s using it to seize the Founders Trust and orchestrate a hostile takeover of my company.”
Julian stared at me. For a moment, the broken prisoner vanished, replaced by genuine, unadulterated shock. Then, he started to laugh. It was a raspy, hysterical, ugly sound that echoed off the cinderblock walls.
“My child?” Julian wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye with his cuffed hands. “Mia is claiming she’s pregnant with my heir?”
“Is it yours, Julian?” I demanded, leaning closer to the smudged plexiglass.
“Claire,” Julian whispered, leaning in, a bitter, vicious smirk twisting his lips. “I had a secret vasectomy five years ago. I never wanted children. Not with you, and certainly not with a gold-digger like Mia. I’m sterile. I have the medical records under an alias in a private clinic in Manhattan.”
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The final puzzle piece clicked into place. The trap was set.
“Give me the name of the clinic, Julian,” I smiled, the ice in my veins turning to liquid fire.
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