Chapter 5 - Julianna’s Ghost
The sedan tore through the midtown traffic, weaving aggressively between yellow cabs and delivery vans. Claire sat in the back, cleaning the gravel from my cut feet with wet wipes from Leo’s emergency kit, while Leo kept his foot buried in the accelerator.
"You need to know who you're dealing with, Elena," Claire said, leaning forward between the front bucket seats. She opened a secondary file on the silver phone. "Julianna didn't just stumble into this. She was Walter’s ward before she was Adrian’s fiancée."
I looked at the black-and-white photographs on the screen. Julianna was stunning—dark hair, fierce, intelligent eyes, a former classical pianist whose family had perished in a suspicious private plane crash twelve years ago.
"Her family owned thirty percent of Vance Logistics," Claire explained, her voice thick with emotion. "When her parents died, Walter became her legal guardian. He managed her inheritance. When Julianna turned twenty-one, she demanded an independent forensic audit of the estate. Two weeks later, Adrian proposed to her."
"The same play," I whispered, the sheer depravity of it turning my stomach. "Adrian proposes, binds the assets through marriage, and prevents the audit."
"Exactly," Leo said from behind the wheel, his knuckles white against the leather. "Julianna figured it out three days before the wedding. She found the forged offshore accounts in Walter’s private safe. She tried to run. Adrian took her out on the family yacht under the guise of an intimate pre-wedding dinner. When they were five miles off the coast of Montauk, Adrian shoved her overboard during a squall."
"He thought she drowned," Claire added. "Her dress weighed her down, but she managed to kick free of the fabric. She was picked up by a commercial scalloping vessel four hours later, hypothermic and barely conscious. The fishermen didn't know who she was. By the time she woke up in a clinic in Maine, Walter had already held a memorial service, declared her legally dead, and absorbed her family's shares into the primary trust."
"Why didn't she go to the FBI?" I asked, horrified.
"With what?" Claire countered bitterly. "Walter Vance owns senators, district attorneys, and federal judges. A traumatized girl with no money, no proof, and a death certificate wouldn't have survived forty-eight hours in protective custody. Julianna reached out to me because my father was the head of corporate compliance for the Vance firm before he 'committed suicide' five years ago."
The puzzle pieces fell into place with sickening clarity. "This isn't just about a trust fund. It’s an empire built on bodies."
"And tonight is their final deadline," Leo said, checking his watch: **10:15 PM.** "Grandfather’s charter stipulates that if the trust isn't ratified by Adrian and his lawful wife in front of the executive board before midnight on his thirtieth birthday, the charter irrevocably dissolves. The assets are frozen by an automated swiss trust protocol that Walter cannot bribe or intimidate."
"Where is the board meeting taking place?" I asked.
"The 64th floor of Vance Tower," Leo replied, swerving into the underground executive parking garage beneath the monolithic glass skyscraper. "Walter called an emergency closed-door session for 11:30 PM. The board thinks they’re just ratifying the routine marriage succession documents. They have no idea Adrian had to drag you out of the ballroom."
"And Julianna is in the penthouse on the 66th floor," Claire murmured, checking the magazine of her pistol. "Two floors above them."
Leo killed the engine in a private, unmonitored maintenance bay beneath the building’s steam exhaust grid. The subterranean garage was eerily quiet, the air thick with exhaust and ozone.
"The executive elevator requires two biometric scans and my titanium card," Leo said, turning to look at me. "I can get us up to the 64th floor utility staging area. But once we step out of that elevator, Walter’s private contractors will have kill orders. They know what's at stake."
I reached into the glove compartment, pulling out a pair of black utility coveralls Leo had stashed for track days. I pulled them on over my torn wedding dress, zipping the heavy canvas all the way to my throat. I looked at my reflection in the side mirror.
My hair was a wild, tangled mess. The white cake frosting had dried into pale war paint across my cheekbones. But behind the grime, the woman staring back at me wasn't the sweet, accommodating socialite who had walked down the aisle of the St. Regis three hours ago.
She was someone entirely new.
May you like
"Leo," I said, my voice steady as steel. "Give me the phone. Claire, take the elevator override codes. We have one hour and forty minutes to save Julianna and tear this family down."
***
