Chapter 7 - AN UNEXPECTED ALLY
The carriage house on the outskirts of the estate district smelled of dry parchment, pipe tobacco, and aged cedar. Sitting behind a desk made from a salvaged ship hull was Marcus Vance—Richard’s estranged older brother and the true founder of the family firm. Twenty years ago, Marcus had walked away from the corporation after Richard weaponized corporate loopholes to oust him from board control.
When the bell above the door chimed, Marcus, a broad-shouldered man with silver hair and sharp steel-gray eyes, looked up from his drafting table. He squinted at Julian, whom he recognized as his late friend’s son, and then his gaze moved to the young woman standing beside him.
Clara wore no veil, no makeup, and no sunglasses. Her hair was pulled back tightly into a sleek chignon, letting the ambient afternoon light illuminate the crimson scars tracing down her face.
Marcus froze. He stood up slowly, leaning heavily on his carved mahogany cane. "Clara?"
"Hello, Uncle Marcus," Clara said quietly.
The old man walked around the desk, his eyes searching her face with an expression of shock that rapidly curdled into incandescent fury. "Richard did this?"
"Victoria did the deed," Clara answered, her voice steady and devoid of self-pity. "Father covered it up. He gave me fifty thousand dollars and told me to disappear because my face would embarrass the family at the Carrington dinner."
Marcus slammed his cane against the pine floorboards with a crack that echoed like a rifle shot. "Bastards. Both of them. Cold-blooded, hollow cowards." He walked over, placing a large, calloused hand on Clara’s shoulder, his eyes glistening. "Child, I am so sorry. When you were a little girl, drawing towers in my workshop, I should have pulled you out of that house. I thought staying out of their lives would keep you safe. I was a fool."
"Don't apologize, Uncle," Clara said, stepping forward to spread her rolled-up architectural blueprints across his desk. "I didn't come here for comfort. I came here to build an alliance."
Marcus leaned over the blueprints, his experienced eyes scanning the complex schematics. Within seconds, his gaze locked onto the foundation stress vectors Clara had identified.
"God in heaven," Marcus breathed, tapping the page. "The Carrington roof. If the load shifts during high tide, the shear stress will snap these junction plates like dry twigs. Did Victoria submit this?"
"It has already passed preliminary board approval," Clara confirmed. "The final contract signing and model unveiling is in three weeks at the Vance Gala. I need you to use your legacy voting shares to secure an unannounced seat on the architectural review board."
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Marcus looked up, a fierce, predatory smile touching the corners of his mouth. "My dear, I don't just have legacy shares. I still hold the proprietary patents to the Vance tensile anchoring systems. If I revoke those patents due to safety violations, Richard cannot pour a single ounce of concrete without my signature."
"Then let's make sure," Clara said, her eyes flashing with cold fire, "that when that curtain rises, the world sees exactly what kind of foundation the Vance empire is built upon."
