Chapter 5 - The Ledger of Lies
I walked into my private study, leaving the door wide open.
"Brandon," I called out, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Get down here."
A minute later, Brandon crept into the room. He no longer looked like the wealthy, arrogant heir to a real estate empire. He looked small, pathetic, his shoulders slouched, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest as if he were trying to keep himself from shaking apart.
"Sit down," I said, pointing to the wooden chair across from my desk.
Brandon sat on the edge of the seat, refusing to meet my eyes.
I sat behind my desk, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a thick black leather notebook. It was my late wife’s journal—a book I hadn't opened since she passed away fourteen years ago.
"Dad..." Brandon began, his voice cracking. "I know you're mad—"
"Mad?" I interrupted softly. "No, Brandon. Mad is what I get when a business partner breaches a contract. Mad is what I get when a stock drops five percent. What I feel right now is absolute shame."
Brandon winced as if I had slapped him.
"I built this company from nothing," I continued, resting my hands flat on the desk. "When your mother died, I worked twenty-hour days so you would never know what it felt like to worry about a roof over your head or food on your table. And what did you do with that privilege?"
"I messed up, okay?!" Brandon suddenly snapped, his head snapping up, tears streaming down his face. "I got addicted to the thrill! I thought I could win it back! You were always busy with work, always at meetings, always managing the world! I was alone, Dad!"
"So you decided to steal from a cleaning lady?" I asked, leaning forward. "You decided to let an innocent mother face homelessness so you could cover up your gambling debt?"
"Harrison said she wouldn't notice!" Brandon yelled defensively. "He said her pay was coming from an offshore sub-account that had administrative delays anyway! I didn't know he was threatening her landlord! I swear I didn't know!"
"It doesn't matter what you knew about the landlord, Brandon," I said coldly. "You authorized the transfer. You put your signature on the shell company documents."
I slid my laptop across the desk toward him.
"Now, open your personal accounts," I ordered. "All of them. The private accounts, the offshore accounts, the digital wallets. I want to see every dollar you owe."
Brandon hesitated, his fingers trembling over the keyboard.
"Do it," I barked. "Or I will call the police back to this house and let them arrest you alongside Harrison for corporate fraud."
Sobered by the threat, Brandon began typing. For fifteen minutes, he opened hidden accounts, inputting passwords he had kept secret from me for years.
As the numbers populated the screen, my stomach churned.
It wasn't just two hundred thousand dollars.
The total debt owed to the Macao syndicate, combined with high-interest loans from local bookmakers in Los Angeles, stood at $1.4 million.
And worst of all, Brandon had used my corporate name as collateral on three separate informal loan agreements.
"They have copies of your passport, Dad," Brandon whispered, bowing his head in complete shame. "Harrison gave them copies of your corporate tax returns to prove I was good for the money. They told me if I didn't settle the debt by Friday at midnight, they were going to publish the documents to the financial press and accuse Vance Enterprises of laundering money for Asian gambling rings."
I closed my eyes, taking a deep, controlled breath.
The trap had been meticulously set. Harrison hadn't just been helping Brandon—he had been setting up my son as leverage to destroy my entire corporate empire, preparing to blackmail me for millions while stealing from my domestic staff under my very nose.
"Who is the lead contact for the syndicate in Los Angeles?" I asked, opening my eyes.
"A man named Chen," Brandon whimpered. "He operates out of a private club in Chinatown."
I picked up my phone and dialed a number I hadn't called in almost ten years.
May you like
"Julian?" a deep, gravelly voice answered after three rings. "It's been a long time."
"Vincent," I said into the receiver. "I need your team. Bring four men to my estate in Beverly Hills. We have a trash problem that needs cleaning up."
