Chapter 3 - The King in an Empty Castle
At 2:45 a.m., the thirty-second floor of the Skyline Tower smelled of expensive vintage champagne, spilled truffle risotto, and tobacco smoke.
Inside the two-story vaulted living room of my penthouse, Grant Vance sat in my custom white Italian leather armchair, his stockinged feet propped up on the polished black granite coffee table. His tuxedo jacket was draped over the back of the sofa, his silver hair slightly disheveled, a fresh cigarette burning lazily between his fingers as he watched the late-night holiday broadcast on the eighty-five-inch television.
Across the room, Diane Vance was on her knees on the Persian rug, wearing an apron over her ruined champagne-soaked dress, using a damp kitchen towel to scrub at the red wine stains I had left behind when I yanked the tablecloth.
Brooke sat at the breakfast bar, her bare feet swinging, scrolling through her phone while eating leftover shrimp cocktail straight from a silver serving platter.
“I still can't believe she threw that kind of fit,” Brooke laughed, her voice echoing shrilly off the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlooked the Denver skyline. “Did you see her face when Dad pressed the cigarette? She looked like a cornered animal. I swear, Ryan, you married a complete psycho.”
Ryan stood by the panoramic glass wall, a crystal tumbler of my late father’s twenty-year-old single malt scotch clutched in his hand. He wasn't laughing.
His eyes were fixed on the city streets thirty-two stories below, watching the occasional streak of yellow taxi headlights cutting through the New Year's sleet. Every time an elevator chimed in the distance, his shoulders jerked.
“Shut up, Brooke,” Ryan muttered, taking a heavy swallow of the whiskey. “You don't know her like I do. She didn't cry. When she walked out of that elevator, she wasn't crying.”
“So what if she wasn't?” Grant scoffed from the armchair, flicking an ash directly onto the black granite table. “Where is she going to go? Her parents are dead. Her fancy little tech friends are all in Aspen for the holidays. She’s six months pregnant with nowhere to sleep. By noon tomorrow, she’ll be crawling back through that door, apologizing to me on her knees.”
“Dad’s right, Ryan,” Diane chimed in from the floor, her voice dripping with the self-righteous cruelty that had defined her thirty years of marriage to Grant. “You’ve coddled that girl for three years. Letting her keep her own bank accounts, letting her make decisions about the nursery—it gave her ideas above her station. A woman needs to know who the head of the house is. Tomorrow morning, we change the digital codes on the front door. We give her an allowance, and we tell her that if she ever embarrasses this family again, we’ll take the baby and leave her with nothing.”
“The money cleared, didn't it?” Brooke asked, licking cocktail sauce from her thumb. “The transfer from her equity account? I already put the deposit down on the Range Rover in Cherry Creek, Ryan. You promised me the wire would clear by Tuesday.”
“The money cleared,” Ryan said, but his voice lacked conviction. He set the crystal tumbler on the glass sill, staring at his palms. The skin on his knuckles was still red where he had squeezed my wrists against the island. “The bank approved the commercial line. But if she goes to the police about the burn—”
“The police?” Grant laughed, a booming, arrogant sound that rattled the crystal flutes on the bar. “What police? A husband restrains his hysterical, hormonal wife while her father-in-law accidentally brushes her with a cigarette during an argument? In this town? I play golf with the municipal district judge every Sunday, Ryan. We tell them she was waving a steak knife. We tell them she threatened to abort the baby. Who are they going to believe? A respected corporate founder, or an unhinged woman who just vandalized her own dining room?”
The private elevator vestibule chimed.
Not the soft, polite chime of a guest arrival.
It was the harsh, continuous, low-frequency warble of an emergency override.
The heavy brushed-steel doors of the elevator slid open with a hydraulic hiss.
Four uniformed Denver police officers stepped into the private foyer, their tactical vests strapped tight, their hands resting on their duty holsters. Flanking them was Frank Kowalski, the head of building security for the Skyline Tower, holding a master electronic keycard and a clipboard with municipal court seals.
Grant didn't even take his feet off the coffee table. He turned his head, scowling with deep, aristocratic irritation.
“What is the meaning of this?” Grant barked, stubbing his cigarette out into a small ceramic saucer on the table. “Frank, what the hell are you doing bringing patrolmen into my home at three in the morning? We had a minor domestic disagreement. My wife already cleaned it up. Get these people out of here.”
Frank Kowalski didn't look at Grant. He looked at the lead officer, a sergeant with a graying crew cut and cold blue eyes.
“That’s him,” Frank said, pointing a finger directly at Grant’s face. “Grant Vance. And the one by the window is Ryan Vance.”
The sergeant stepped across the hardwood floor, his boots crunching over a stray shard of broken crystal that Diane hadn't managed to sweep away.
“Grant Vance and Ryan Vance,” the sergeant announced, his voice echoing off the concrete ceilings. “Stand up and place your hands behind your heads.”
Ryan’s tumbler slipped from his fingers, shattering on the granite sill, spraying aged scotch across his polished shoes.
“Wait! Officer, wait!” Ryan stammered, his hands immediately flying into the air as he backed against the cold glass. “I am the homeowner! This is my penthouse! My wife has severe psychiatric issues—she’s having an episode—"
“You don't own a single square inch of this property, Mr. Vance,” the sergeant said, pulling two sets of steel handcuffs from his belt. “The deed of record is held exclusively by Claire Bennett under a pre-marital sole-property trust. I have an emergency Protection from Abuse order signed by Judge Patricia Hall at two-fifteen this morning, granting exclusive residential possession to the victim.”
The sergeant stepped behind Grant’s armchair.
Before Grant could drop his legs to the floor, the officer grabbed him by the collar of his dress shirt, yanked him upright with brutal, mechanical leverage, and slammed his chest flat against the back of the white leather sofa.
“Hey! Get your filthy hands off me!” Grant roared, his face turning an alarming shade of mottled purple as his arm was twisted behind his shoulder blade. “Do you know who I am? I am the founder of Vance Industrial! I will have your badge by morning!”
The steel cuffs ratcheted shut with a loud, metallic click-clack.
“Grant Vance, you are under arrest for Felony Assault with a Weapon on a Pregnant Victim and Domestic Torture,” the sergeant recited in a dead monotone.
Two other officers seized Ryan by the arms, forcing him face-down onto the Persian rug, pinning his cheek directly into the puddle of spilled wine and risotto.
“Mom! Dad!” Brooke screamed, jumping off the barstool, clutching her designer phone like a shield. “You can't do this! This is our home! We have rights!”
Frank Kowalski stepped in front of Brooke, holding up an official blue-backed legal document.
“Brooke Vance and Diane Vance,” Frank said with clinical satisfaction. “You are officially served with an emergency notice of criminal trespass. You have exactly ten minutes to gather your coats and personal phones. Any attempt to touch jewelry, artwork, electronics, or personal property belonging to Claire Bennett will result in immediate felony theft charges. The freight elevator is locked. You will be escorted down the service stairs to the street.”
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Diane collapsed onto the sofa, sobbing hysterically into her stained apron.
And as the officers hauled Ryan and Grant toward the elevator doors, their bare ankles dragging across the ruined New Year's dinner, the cold mountain wind outside howled against the glass, tearing away the last remnants of their stolen kingdom.
