Chapter 3 - The Interrogation Room
For three days, Julian Vance sat in a freezing, sterile federal interrogation room in downtown Los Angeles. He was no longer the polished, charismatic CEO who graced the covers of business magazines. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit, his hair was greasy and unkempt, and the arrogant swagger had been entirely stripped from his posture. He sat at a metal table, shivering, desperately clutching a lukewarm cup of cheap coffee.
Across the hall, Victoria Hayes was faring even worse. Without her expensive skincare, designer clothes, and Julian's money to protect her, she had completely unraveled. She had spent the last seventy-two hours screaming at the federal agents, demanding to speak to the press, and throwing wild, hysterical tantrums that only earned her complete silence from her guards.
Julian’s high-priced defense attorney, a slick corporate shark named Richard Sterling, finally walked into the interrogation room, slamming his briefcase onto the metal table.
"Richard, thank God," Julian gasped, leaping to his feet. "Get me out of here! This is a massive misunderstanding! Genevieve had a panic attack on the jet ski, she caused the accident herself! You have to post my bail and get me in front of a judge immediately. My company’s stock is going to plummet if I don't release a statement!"
Richard did not sit down. He did not open his briefcase to pull out bail papers. He simply looked at Julian with an expression of profound, unfiltered disgust.
"Sit down, Julian," Richard ordered coldly.
Julian blinked, shocked by his own lawyer's hostile tone. "Excuse me? I pay your firm three million dollars a year on retainer. You work for me."
"I work for Vance Enterprises," Richard corrected him, adjusting his tie. "And as of this morning, you are no longer the CEO of Vance Enterprises. You have been unilaterally removed by the board of directors."
Julian physically staggered backward, his mouth dropping open in absolute horror. "Removed? On what grounds?! They can't do that! I hold forty percent of the voting shares! I built that company from the ground up!"
"You built nothing, Julian," a new, smooth, terrifyingly calm voice echoed from the doorway.
Julian snapped his head toward the door. Two massive federal marshals stepped aside, allowing Admiral Hector Sterling to enter the room. My father was not in uniform today; he wore a sharp, tailored black suit that made him look like a ruthless corporate raider. He walked into the interrogation room, pulling out a chair and sitting directly across from the man who had tried to murder his daughter.
"Who the hell are you?" Julian demanded, his voice cracking with rising panic. "Are you a federal prosecutor? I know my rights!"
"I am not a prosecutor," my father stated, resting his hands on the metal table. "My name is Admiral Hector Sterling. I command the Pacific Naval Fleet of the United States. But more importantly to you, Julian, I am Genevieve's father."
Julian’s face drained of all color, turning a sickly, ashen gray. His knees gave out, and he collapsed heavily back into his metal chair. "Genevieve's... father? But she said her father was a retired school teacher. She said her family had no money."
"She said that because she wanted to know if the man she married possessed a soul," my father replied, his eyes filled with a lethal, paralyzing ice. "She wanted a genuine partnership. She protected her identity to ensure you loved her, not the billions of dollars attached to the Sterling-Hayes family trust."
"Billions?" Julian choked out, the reality of his catastrophic, monumental mistake finally crashing down on his arrogant head.
"Yes, billions," my father confirmed. "When your pathetic, over-leveraged tech startup was weeks away from federal bankruptcy five years ago, you miraculously received a massive, anonymous capital injection from a silent holding company. You thought it was your brilliant business acumen that secured that investment. You thought you were a genius."
My father leaned forward, lowering his voice into a whisper that echoed like a death sentence. "It wasn't your brilliance, Julian. It was your wife. Genevieve used her personal trust fund to bail you out. She has been the silent majority shareholder of your entire empire since the day you married her. She owns the company. She owns the penthouse. She owns the very clothes you wore on that dock. And as of an hour ago, she has frozen every single asset to your name."
Julian began to hyperventilate. He clutched his chest, tears of absolute, unadulterated terror streaming down his face. He hadn't just thrown away a loving, devoted wife; he had attempted to murder the sole architect of his entire existence.
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"Victoria," Julian gasped, desperately grasping at straws. "It was Victoria’s idea! She manipulated me! She bought the drugs! She planned the jet ski ride! I tried to stop her!"
My father smiled a cold, merciless smile. "That is a fascinating defense, Julian. Because exactly ten minutes ago, Victoria signed a full confession stating that you were the mastermind, in exchange for a slightly reduced sentence. The rats are cannibalizing each other. Enjoy the rest of your pathetic life in a concrete box."
