Chapter 7 - The Final Corner
By Monday morning, the news of Derek Vance’s arrest had utterly destroyed his financial standing.
Vance Capital Holdings’ stock crashed by seventy percent within two hours of the market opening. His board of directors held an emergency meeting and voted unanimously to terminate him as CEO, stripping him of his corporate voting rights.
However, at 2:00 PM, a wealthy anonymous backer—one of Patricia’s old high-society lovers—posted Derek’s $500,000 emergency bail bond.
Derek walked out of the county jail under strict instruction to remain at his mother’s suburban residence pending his trial.
He didn't go to his mother’s house.
At 8:00 PM that evening, I was alone in the quiet, sprawling library of my father’s grand estate on the outskirts of the city. Harper and Arthur had gone back to the city office to prepare the civil lawsuit, leaving two private security guards posted at the front gate.
The house was quiet, filled only with the soft ticking of the grand pendulum clock in the corner.
Suddenly, the heavy glass doors leading to the back terrace shattered with a violent, deafening crash.
I stood up from my father’s oak desk, my heart hammering against my ribs, as a figure stepped through the curtain of broken glass into the dim light of the library.
It was Derek.
His suit was torn, his hair wild and unkempt, his eyes bloodshot and filled with an unhinged, murderous fury. In his right hand, he held a heavy iron fireplace poker he had grabbed from the terrace set.
“You ruined me,” Derek breathed, his chest heaving as he took a slow, menacing step toward me. “You little bitch. You took everything from me.”
I didn't scream. I didn't back away.
I stood behind my father’s oak desk, my right hand resting quietly near the edge of the polished wood.
“You ruined yourself, Derek,” I said, keeping my voice cold, flat, and steady. “The moment you thought you could bleed me and make me smile for your audience.”
“You think you’ve won?!” Derek roared, raising the iron poker, his face contorting in pure madness. “The judge released me! My lawyer will tear that audio recording apart in court! I’ll claim it was self-defense! I’ll claim you attacked me first!”
“You can try,” I said softly.
“Where are the hard drives, Claire?!” Derek screamed, taking another step closer, the iron bar shaking in his grip. “Where is the file Victoria gave you?! Give it to me, or I swear to God you won't leave this room alive tonight!”
“I don't have the hard drives here, Derek,” I said, looking him straight in the eyes. “They were delivered to the District Attorney’s office two hours ago.”
Derek let out a guttural shriek of rage and lunged across the desk, raising the iron poker high above his head to strike.
I hit the red panic button installed under the edge of my father’s desk.
Instantly, two heavy steel security shutters slammed down over the terrace doors, sealing the library. At the exact same moment, the heavy oak doors of the room swung open.
Three armed officers from the state tactical response unit—who had been stationed inside the house precisely because Arthur anticipated Derek would violate his bail—flooded into the room, their laser sights painting Derek’s chest in bright red dots.
“DROP THE WEAPON! DOWN ON THE GROUND NOW!”
Derek froze, the heavy iron poker hovering inches above my father’s desk, the red dots dancing across his wild, sweating face.
He looked at the tactical officers, then looked at me.
I stood tall, looking down at him from behind the desk, completely unfazed.
“You forgot one thing, Derek,” I whispered, leaning forward slightly. “This isn't your house. It never was.”
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Derek dropped the iron poker. It clattered loudly against the hardwood floor.
The officers slammed him down onto the ground, pinning his arms behind his back as he began to weep—pathetic, sniveling tears of a coward who had finally run out of ground to stand on.
