Chapter 5 - Handcuffs and High Society
The walk of shame down the center aisle of St. Jude’s Cathedral was something high society would talk about for decades.
As federal agents escorted Jonathan Duncan through the grand wooden doors, flashes from dozens of media cameras lit up the gloom. Word had leaked with lightning speed. Outside the cathedral, satellite trucks from every major news network were already double-parked along Fifth Avenue. Photographers fought for space against the brass velvet ropes, their lenses tracking Jonathan’s bloody, downcast face.
“Jonathan! Did you frame your fiancée?”
“Mr. Duncan, is Clara Vance alive?”
“Is Duncan Apex solvent?”
Jonathan didn't answer. He couldn't. He kept his head lowered, the man who had commanded boardrooms and gala ballrooms now ducking into the back of an unmarked federal sedan like a common street criminal.
Inside the sanctuary, the drama was far from over.
Two female investigators from the New York State Attorney General’s Office approached Rosalind Duncan. She was still sitting in the front pew, her hands trembling violently as she clutched her designer purse against her chest like a shield.
“Rosalind Duncan?” one of the investigators asked, displaying her badge. “We have a warrant for your arrest as an accessory to wire fraud, witness tampering, and obstruction of justice.”
Rosalind’s eyes snapped up, wide and wild. “Do you know who I am? You cannot touch me! I am a Duncan! My family built this city!”
“Ma’am, stand up and place your hands behind your back,” the investigator said calmly.
“I will not! This is a sacred house of God! You are trespassing!” Rosalind shrieked, her aristocratic composure completely shattering into shrill hysteria. “Eleanor! Tell them! Tell them you lied! I took you into my home! I gave you jewelry! I treated you like a daughter!”
I walked slowly down the altar steps, still wearing the simple white silk shift, my head held high. I stopped two feet from where Rosalind sat.
“You didn't treat me like a daughter, Rosalind,” I said, my voice echoing across the now quiet pews where guests lingered, unwilling to leave the spectacle. “You treated me like an accomplice you could bully. You saw the marks your son left on my body, and your only concern was whether the foundation I used would stain the collar of my wedding dress.”
“You deserved it!” Rosalind spat, all pretense of gentility stripped away, revealing the venom that had fueled her for decades. “You were a nobody! A low-born clerk who dared to look through our private files! If Jonathan broke your bones, it was because you didn't know your place!”
A collective murmur of disgust swept through the remaining guests. Even her closest society friends stepped backward, shaking their heads in revulsion.
“Thank you for saying that on the record, Mrs. Duncan,” the investigator said coolly.
The two officers stepped forward, pulled Rosalind roughly to her feet, and pulled her arms behind her back. The sharp snap of the second pair of handcuffs sounded like a closing gavel.
Rosalind gasped as the cold steel bit into her wrists. “You’ll pay for this! Both of you! My attorneys will have this thrown out before midnight!”
“Your personal attorneys just resigned, Rosalind,” Victoria Vance remarked, holding up her phone. “The firm of Sterling, Hayes & Vance has officially declared a conflict of interest. And since your family accounts are frozen under the federal injunction, you won't even be able to pay the retainer for a public defender until the forensic audit is complete.”
Rosalind stared at Victoria, then at Clara, and finally at me. For the first time in her seventy years, the great matriarch realized she had no cards left to play. She had no money, no allies, and no power.
As the officers led the weeping, disheveled matriarch down the aisle, the sanctuary began to clear. Guests slipped away quietly, embarrassed by their own association with the fallen dynasty.
Arthur Sterling remained behind. The elderly billionaire walked up to the altar steps, his eyes heavy with sorrow and shame. He looked at Clara, his voice cracking with emotion.
“Clara... I don't know what to say,” Arthur murmured. “Your father was my dearest friend. When Jonathan told us you were gone... we believed him. We trusted the family name. If I had known what they were doing to you—what they were doing to the company—I would have torn that boardroom apart with my bare hands.”
Clara placed a gentle hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “You didn't know, Arthur. Richard’s betrayal was so grand that decent men couldn't even conceive of it. But it’s over now. We have the patents. We have the company. And we have Eleanor.”
Arthur turned his gaze to me. His expression was a mix of awe and profound respect.
“Young lady,” Arthur said, extending a hand to me. “In fifty years on Wall Street, I have never seen someone dismantle a ninety-billion-dollar empire with such surgical brilliance. What you did today took more courage than most men in this room possess.”
I shook his hand, feeling the strength in his grip. “I didn't do it for Wall Street, Mr. Sterling. I did it because nobody deserves to live in a cage, no matter how much gold it’s coated in.”
“What happens now?” Arthur asked.
“Now,” I said, looking toward Victoria and Agent Cole, who had just re-entered the sanctuary, “we go to the Greenwich estate. Because the documents I leaked to the DOJ were only the digital files. Jonathan kept a physical paper trail for every bribe, every blackmail payment, and every payoff he made over the last fifteen years. And we are going to make sure none of it remains hidden.”
Agent Cole nodded, adjusting his jacket. “The search warrant has already been signed by the federal judge. The transport team is ready, Eleanor. Lead the way.”
I walked toward the bridal dressing room to change out of the silk shift. As I passed the towering pier glass mirror in the vestibule, I paused.
I looked at my reflection.
The bruises on my collarbone and arms were still visible, angry and purple against my pale skin. But the hollow, terrified look in my eyes was gone. In its place was a woman who had walked into the lion’s den, mapped out every exit, and burned the cage to the ground on her way out.
I slipped into a pair of dark jeans, a thick woolen sweater, and boots. I pulled my hair back into a practical ponytail.
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The bride was dead. The investigator was back.
***
