Chapter 8 - Confrontation in Glass and Steel
The Metropolitan Correctional Center smelled of industrial disinfectant, cold steel, and stale regret.
I was escorted through four separate security checkpoints, each heavy reinforced door buzzing and clanking shut behind me with a finality that made my spine tingle. But unlike my visits to the Duncan estate, this metal cage was not meant for me.
I was led into a private attorney-client conference room. A thick pane of shatterproof plexiglass divided the small space in half. On my side sat a molded plastic chair and a stainless steel counter.
Two minutes later, the door on the opposite side swung open.
A corrections officer pushed Jonathan Duncan into the room.
The sight of him was shocking.
The golden heir of Duncan Apex Holdings was completely unrecognizable. He wore an oversized, bright orange prison jumpsuit made of coarse, cheap cotton. His wrists were handcuffed to a heavy chain wrapped around his waist. His broken nose had been set poorly, leaving a crooked, swollen ridge across his face, and deep purple bruises circled both of his eyes. His signature manicured hair was greasy and unkempt, sticking out in ragged tufts.
He looked fifty years old.
The guard shoved Jonathan into the metal chair bolted to the floor, checked his waist chain, and stepped back to the door, resting a hand on his baton.
Jonathan looked through the scratched plexiglass at me. His eyes were bloodshot, hollow, and burning with a toxic mixture of rage, disbelief, and desperate hunger.
I picked up the black telephone receiver on my side of the glass.
Jonathan hesitated, his hands trembling as he lifted the receiver on his side. His breath hitched against the plastic mouthpiece, producing a wet, crackling sound.
“Nora,” he whispered. His voice was cracked, devoid of the velvety smoothness he had used to charm boardrooms and seduce victims.
“My name is Eleanor,” I said, my tone ice-cold, devoid of any anger or malice. Just pure, unyielding indifference.
Jonathan swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Eleanor... please. You have to listen to me. This whole thing... it’s gotten completely out of control.”
“Has it?” I asked, leaning back slightly in my chair. “It seems very well controlled to me. The SEC took over Duncan Apex this morning. The asset forfeiture warrants have been executed. Your mother’s bond was revoked, and she is currently in a holding cell three floors below you.”
Jonathan flinched as if I had struck him. He pressed his face closer to the glass, his breath fogging the clear surface.
“You don't understand,” he pleaded, his voice rising in panic. “Those people... the feds, the board... they don't care about you! They’re just using you! They’re going to take everything and leave you with nothing! But you and I... we can still fix this.”
I looked at him in genuine disbelief. Even now, stripped of every shred of power, locked in a federal cage, his narcissistic delusion remained intact.
“Fix this?” I repeated softly. “How exactly do you propose we fix this, Jonathan?”
“I have sixty million dollars in unlisted bearer bonds,” he whispered, his eyes darting frantically toward the guard at the door before leaning in closer. “They aren't in the system. They aren't in the ledgers you found. They’re in a private safety deposit box in Zurich under an alias only I know. I can give you the key, Eleanor. I can give you the authorization code. Half of it is yours! Thirty million dollars! Just go to the prosecutor. Tell them you made a mistake. Tell them the bruising was from an accident—that you fell down the cellar stairs! Tell them you misunderstood the financial transfers!”
I listened to him, feeling a profound, liberating sense of pity. Not sympathy—never sympathy. Just the cold pity one feels for a creature so fundamentally broken that it cannot comprehend basic human reality.
“You really don't get it, do you?” I said, my voice quiet and steady through the receiver. “You think everyone has a price, Jonathan, because you sold your own soul a long time ago.”
“Thirty million dollars, Eleanor!” he hissed, his composure cracking, the feral rage bubbling back to the surface. “You were a nobody! A pathetic, miserable accountant making eighty grand a year! I gave you diamonds! I bought you dresses worth more than your mother’s house! You think you’re better than me?”
“I know I’m better than you,” I replied calmly. “And as for your safety deposit box in Zurich? Box 842 at Bank Leu? The one registered under the name ‘William Vance’?”
Jonathan froze. The color drained from his face so fast I thought he was going to pass out.
“How...” he choked, the receiver trembling in his hand. “How did you...”
“I found the rental agreement inside the false lining of your father’s desk calendar three weeks ago,” I said smoothly. “The Swiss Federal Department of Justice seized the contents of Box 842 at 6:00 AM Central European Time this morning. The bonds are already being transferred to the federal restitution fund.”
Jonathan’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. The last remaining life raft he had clung to in his mind had just been torpedoed before his eyes.
“There are no hidden millions, Jonathan,” I told him, looking straight into his shattered eyes. “There are no offshore accounts. There is no family estate. The Greenwich house is being auctioned by the US Marshals next month. Your mother’s jewelry is being appraised for liquidation. You don't have a single dollar left in the world.”
Jonathan gripped the receiver with both hands, his knuckles turning white. “I loved you!” he screamed, his voice breaking into a ragged, pathetic sob. “I chose you! Out of all the women in the world, I chose you! And you betrayed me!”
“You didn't choose me, Jonathan,” I said, leaning in close to the glass, ensuring he heard every single syllable. “You selected a target. You wanted someone smart enough to handle your paperwork, but someone you thought was weak enough to beat into silence. You thought fear would keep me compliant.”
I paused, letting the silence stretch between us.
“You taught me a valuable lesson, Jonathan,” I continued softly. “You taught me what happens when you let a monster dictate your worth. But you forgot the most important rule of the game.”
“What rule?” he wept, tears finally cutting tracks through the grime on his bruised face.
“Never underestimate the woman you try to destroy,” I said.
I slowly hung the receiver back on its cradle.
Jonathan began slamming his cuffed hands against the plexiglass, screaming incoherently, his face contorted in absolute madness. The corrections officer stepped forward instantly, wrapping a powerful arm around Jonathan’s neck, forcing him backward out of the chair, and dragging him kicking and screaming through the heavy metal door.
The door slammed shut. The lock engaged.
Silence returned to the room.
May you like
I sat alone for a moment, listening to the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights. Then, I stood up, smoothed the front of my black coat, and walked out into the corridor, leaving the ghost of Jonathan Duncan behind me forever.
***
