Chapter 3 - The Ghost’s Ledger
The sound of the defibrillator discharging echoed through the marble gallery like a thunderclap. Julian stood motionless, watching Clara's body jerk violently on the floor. For three agonized minutes, time ceased to exist. When the paramedic finally called out a restored rhythm, Julian exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
""We are transporting her to St. Jude’s private ICU immediately,"" the paramedic stated, rolling Clara onto a gurney. ""Her stomach must be pumped, and full toxicology must begin within the hour.""
""I am coming,"" Julian said automatically, taking a step toward the gurney.
""No, Master Vance,"" the doctor insisted respectfully. ""The medical helicopter only has room for the trauma team. Follow by car.""
As the medics rushed Clara through the grand double doors into the night, the mansion fell into a deafening silence. Eleanor lingered near the staircase, watching Julian with calculating eyes.
""Julian,"" she began, attempting to sound soothing. ""You must understand the pressure our family is under. The board meeting tomorrow—""
""Go to your quarters, Mother,"" Julian cut in, refusing to even look at her. ""Do not leave this estate. If you step one foot beyond the front gate, I will have the estate security detain you myself.""
Eleanor's jaw tightened, offended pride flashing across her features, but Julian’s aura left no room for defiance. She turned sharply, the emerald velvet sweeping behind her as she ascended the grand staircase.
Left alone in the quiet corridor, Julian retreated to his private study. He locked the heavy mahogany doors and pulled out the crumpled scrap of paper Clara had pressed into his palm. Unfolding it under the warm glow of the desk lamp, he found it was not a note, but a torn corner of a bank transfer receipt dated three days ago.
The account name was partially obscured, but the signature at the bottom was unmistakably bold and familiar: Victor Vance.
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Julian’s hands shook. Beneath the signature, written in Clara’s desperate, shaky handwriting, was an address: Warehouse 4, Blackwood Docks.
His phone suddenly buzzed against the polished mahogany desk. A text message appeared from an unknown encrypted number: Did she drink it all, little brother?
