Chapter 7 - The Mastermind
Eight hundred miles away, in a private suite at the St. Regis Bal Harbour, Eleanor Vance sat by the open balcony.
The ocean breeze fluttered the sheer curtains. On the glass table rested a cup of Earl Grey tea and an open iPad displaying real-time security footage of a dilapidated shipyard in Port Arthur, Texas. The camera feed, installed years ago by Arthur Vance, showed a dim warehouse floor where a young man in oversized blue overalls was struggling to push a heavy metal rolling cart across the dirt.
A knock sounded at the door. Marcus Sterling entered, carrying a slim leather folder.
"He lasted through the night," Marcus said, pulling up a chair opposite Eleanor. "Hank called an hour ago. Julian reported for work at four-forty-five AM. He's currently scrubbing rust off a 1974 Caterpillar marine diesel."
Eleanor took a slow sip of her tea. Her face was impassive, but her green eyes betrayed a flicker of deep, maternal exhaustion. "And Brianna?"
Marcus offered an amused smirk. "She came to the penthouse last night with an overnight bag, claiming she had realized her true feelings for me all along. She brought along a signed non-disclosure agreement and hinted that she could testify against Julian in any asset recovery suits if I took care of her monthly expenses."
"What did you do?"
"I let her drink a glass of champagne on the terrace for the photographs she desperately wanted to post," Marcus said coldly. "Then I had building security escort her down the service elevator. Her vanity will keep her silent for a few days, but once she realizes I have no intention of funding her lifestyle, she will become desperate."
"Keep her close enough to watch," Eleanor said, setting down her teacup with a delicate click. "Desperate people are predictable. It’s Julian I care about."
Marcus looked at the iPad screen, where Julian had just dropped a wrench, clutching his bleeding knuckles in agony. "You're taking a massive risk, Eleanor. If Julian fails to deliver those engines by the twenty-fifth, Sterling Capital will legally own the salvage yard. The court will enforce the debt transfer. You will have completely severed your son from the Vance legacy."
"If Julian cannot save a six-acre scrap yard with his own sweat, he has no right to inherit Vance Maritime," Eleanor said, her voice turning hard as diamond. "My husband spent forty years turning two rotting tugboats into an international shipping conglomerate. Julian thought wealth was a birthright that renewed itself like a monthly subscription. He needed to touch the iron his father touched."
"And if he breaks?" Marcus asked softly.
Eleanor turned her gaze back out to the Atlantic. "Then he was never Arthur's son. And I will leave the entire empire to an educational foundation before I let a parasite run it into the sea."
Back in Port Arthur, the humid heat of the Texas afternoon reached ninety-five degrees inside the unventilated warehouse. Julian’s skin was covered in black grease, sweat, and rust dust. His hands were blistered and raw. Every muscle in his back screamed as he leaned over the iron engine block, trying to free a seized bolt with an iron wrench.
"Harder, boy!" Hank bellowed from across the bay. "You're pulling like a debutante! Put your shoulder into it!"
Julian grunted, his teeth grinding together until his jaw ached. He pulled with every ounce of strength in his body. The wrench slipped, the bolt snapped, and Julian crashed backward into a pool of stagnant bilge water.
May you like
He lay there on the concrete, staring up at the rusted rafters, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He wanted to weep. He wanted to scream.
Then, through the open bay doors, the sound of a luxury sports car engine purred to a stop in the gravel yard.
