Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Greenwood
Clara’s hand reflexively dropped to the hard thermoplastic shell strapped around her right knee. "A clinic on 4th Avenue. It was the cheapest one they had after the hit-and-run three weeks ago."
"A hit-and-run," Alexander repeated, his voice dangerously level. "The police report claimed no witnesses, no cameras, and a black sedan that vanished into the industrial district."
Clara’s eyes widened with genuine shock. "How could you possibly know that? It wasn't even covered in the news. The officer told me cases like mine get filed away within forty-eight hours."
Alexander didn't answer immediately. He whistled softly, a two-tone command that made Titan immediately retreat to heel, sitting obediently at Alexander’s left side. "Leave the cart, Clara. You're coming with me."
"I can't," she protested, gripping the blue cloth tighter. "If I don't finish this floor, the custodial agency won't authorize my paycheck on Friday. I have rent due, and my mother—"
"Your employment with that agency ended two minutes ago," Alexander said firmly, stepping forward and deftly taking the spray bottle and rag from her hands, tossing them unceremoniously onto the cart. "And your mother’s medical expenses at Providence St. Peter have already been covered."
Clara felt the room spin. The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet. "What did you say?"
"I don't leave my blind spots unguarded," Alexander said, offering his arm again. This time, he didn't wait for her permission. He hooked his arm carefully beneath hers, bearing half her weight so her right leg barely touched the marble. "Julian didn't assign you to this floor because you're a cleaner, Clara. He put you here because he knew I work past midnight every Tuesday. He wanted me to see you."
"Why?" Her voice broke, a raw mix of terror and utter confusion swirling inside her. "I don't know your family! I grew up in a foster home in Greenwood! I’ve scrubbed toilets and washed dishes my whole life!"
Alexander led her through the double mahogany doors into his personal executive office—a sprawling suite of dark wood, glass, and leather. The lights were dimmed to an amber glow. He guided her to a deep leather sofa and helped her lower herself gently onto the cushions. Titan immediately lay across Clara’s feet, his massive warm body providing comforting heat to her aching limb.
Alexander walked over to his massive desk and pulled a leather-bound folder from the top drawer. He opened it and pulled out a single, yellowed photograph. He walked back and held it out to her.
Clara took the photo with trembling fingers. The image showed a younger Alexander Vance, perhaps in his early twenties, standing beside an older man with piercing gray eyes and a rugged, weathered jaw—Arthur Vance, the founder of the empire. But standing between them was a young woman holding an infant. The woman had the exact same almond-shaped hazel eyes, the same delicate chin, and the same slight arch of the left eyebrow as Clara.
"That's... that's my mother," Clara whispered, tears welling in her eyes as she stared at the face she had only seen in faded polaroids before her mother fell ill. "Elena."
"Elena wasn't just an employee of Vance International thirty years ago," Alexander said, leaning against the edge of the low coffee table in front of her. "She was my father’s primary architectural designer. And according to my father's original, unamended last will and testament, she owns forty-nine percent of the land this tower is built on."
Clara stared at him, unable to breathe. "That's... that's impossible. We’ve lived in poverty my entire life."
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"Julian hid the deed when my father died," Alexander said coldly. "He's spent the last five years trying to locate Elena's legal heir to execute a fraudulent buyout before I found out. That hit-and-run three weeks ago wasn't an accident, Clara. It was an intimidation tactic to keep you weak, broke, and desperate."
Just as the words settled in the room, the sudden shriek of a fire alarm pierced the quiet night, and the office plunged into pitch-black darkness.
