The morning of the departure, the air in the Vance living room was so thick you could choke on it. Frank sat at the head of the mahogany table, a pen tapping rhythmically against the wood. Beside him lay a stack of documents thick enough to be a novel.
The Prenuptial Agreement. The Non-Disclosure Agreement. The Waiver of Rights.
"Sign," Frank said. He didn't look up.
I stood by the window, clutching my denim bag. I was wearing the pink dress. It was tight, uncomfortable, and ridiculous for a Tuesday morning.
I walked to the table. I picked up the pen. I hovered it over the signature line.
Then I stopped.
Frank stopped tapping. "What are you doing?"
I looked up at him. My eyes were wide, innocent. I dropped the pen. It clattered loudly on the table.
"I don't read so good, Uncle Frank," I said, my voice pitching up a little and my grammar slipping into the broken cadence I had perfected for them. "But I know numbers. And I don't see my numbers here."
Frank's face turned a shade of purple I hadn't seen before. "Excuse me?"
"I heard you and Aunt Brenda," I said. "In the bathroom. You said two million."
Brenda gasped from the sofa. "You little spy!"
I took a step back, crossing my arms. "I'm not signing. Not until I see the money."
Frank stood up so fast his chair tipped over. "You ungrateful little gutter rat! We are giving you a life! We are giving you a future!"
"You're selling me to a monster!" I screamed back. I let the tears come now. Panic, real and raw, or at least it looked that way. "You said he kills people! If I'm going to die, I want to die rich!"
Kayla marched over and got in my face. "You don't deserve a dime."
"Then go marry him yourself!" I shoved the papers toward her.
Silence. Absolute silence descended on the room. Kayla recoiled as if the papers were radioactive. They all knew the truth. They were terrified of Julian Sterling.
Frank looked at his watch. The Sterling car would be here in twelve minutes. If I wasn't in it, the deal was off. The Vance family bankruptcy would be public by noon.
He was trapped. And he knew it.
"Fine," he snarled. He pulled out his phone. "Give me the account number."
I didn't hesitate. I pulled a crumpled piece of paper from my bra. It had a routing number on it.
"What is this?" Frank squinted at it. "This is... Swiss?"
"My friend's account," I lied smoothly. "She works at a bank. Said she could hold it for me so Momma don't steal it."
Frank didn't have time to argue. His fingers flew across the screen, trembling with rage. He authorized the wire transfer.
I waited. My left eye began to itch-the signal from the contact lens I was wearing. A tiny, augmented reality overlay flickered in my vision.
My fingers, hidden behind my back, tapped a sequence on the microscopic keypad embedded in my belt buckle. It was a failsafe. Frank thought he was sending a pending authorization, something he could cancel later. But with a little help from my end, the transfer was instant and irreversible.
Transfer Confirmed: $2,000,000.00 USD.
I smiled. It was a greedy, ugly smile. I grabbed the pen and scribbled my name on the documents. I didn't even read them.
The doorbell rang.
Frank grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. "If you screw this up, Serena, I will find you. And I will make you wish you died in that house."
I pulled my arm away. I grabbed my bag.
"Bye, Uncle Frank. Thanks for the tip."
I walked out the front door.
A stretch limousine was waiting. Standing beside the open door was a man who looked like he had been carved out of granite. He wore a tuxedo that fit him like armor. His hair was grey, cropped close. His eyes were cold, assessing, and utterly unimpressed.
Higgins. The Sterling family's head of security and estate manager.
He looked at my pink dress. He looked at my cheap bag. He didn't say a word. He just gestured for me to get in.
I climbed into the back. The leather here was softer than Frank's car. It smelled of expensive cologne and old money.
Higgins got in the back with me, sitting on the opposite bench. The partition was up. We were alone.
He tapped on a tablet, ignoring me completely.
I leaned back, clutching my bag to my chest. I let out a long, shaky breath.
The car began to move. I watched the Vance house disappear in the rearview mirror. I felt the weight of the two million dollars in the offshore account-funds that Wolf was already converting into cryptocurrency to buy the illegal chelation agents we needed for Julian.
I looked at Higgins. "So," I said, popping a bubble of gum. "Is he really crazy? Or is that just, like, a rumor?"
Higgins looked up. His eyes were dead.
"Ms. Vance," he said, his voice deep and smooth. "In this family, the rumors are usually the polite version of the truth."
