Chapter 8 - The Desperate Plea
The autumn wind swept dead leaves across the wet pavement outside the Sterling estate, rattling the wrought-iron gates like a skeletal hand begging for entrance. Inside the brightly lit kitchen, I was feeding little Arthur his evening purée when my phone—resting facedown on the marble island—lit up with a blocked caller ID.
I ignored it. It buzzed a second time. Then a third.
Marcus, who was reviewing security logs by the breakfast bar, glanced at the screen before looking up at me.
"It’s him again," Marcus said, his voice flat. "He’s been using public payphones around the industrial district. His friends have all blocked his number, and the motels won't let him charge rooms anymore."
"Let him call," I said calmly, wiping a speck of sweet potato off my son's chin. "Desperation is the only teacher left for someone like Daniel."
"He’s requested a formal audience through our legal liaison," Marcus added, sliding a folded piece of printer paper across the counter. "He claims he has information regarding the remaining hidden assets of the DuPont estate—assets that could implicate your former father-in-law further, if you're interested."
I looked down at the paper. The handwriting was frantic, scrawled with a pen that had skipped across the page. It was a pathetic plea from a man who had traded his entire existence for a designer label and a high-society trophy wife, only to discover that the vault was completely empty.
"Tell him to give the information to the federal prosecutor," I replied evenly, tossing the paper into the recycling bin. "I don't trade with beggars, Marcus. Especially not ones who used to own the bank."
Just then, the heavy oak front doors swung open, and my father walked in, shaking the rain from his dark umbrella. His eyes softened the moment he saw his grandson sitting in the high chair, gurgling happily with a spoon in his fist.
"How is my favorite business partner?" Dad asked, walking over to press a warm kiss to the top of Arthur’s head before looking at me. "I heard we had another visitor at the perimeter gate today."
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"Just an echo of the past," I smiled.
Dad pulled out a stool, sitting down opposite me. "You know, Vivienne, when I first built Sterling Holdings, I worried that giving you everything would make you soft. I worried you wouldn't know how to survive the cold." He reached out, gently tapping the heavy platinum signet ring on my finger. "I was a fool to worry. You didn't just survive the cold; you learned how to command the storm."
