Chapter 5 - The Fall of the House of Vance
The next morning, the financial news channels in Boston and New York didn't talk about stocks or federal reserve rates.
They talked about the sudden, catastrophic collapse of V&C Technologies.
By nine o'clock, federal agents had raided Derek’s downtown office, seizing servers, financial ledgers, and hard drives. By noon, his name had been quietly scrubbed from the board of directors, and his corporate partners had publicly distanced themselves from his management style, claiming ignorance of his embezzlement schemes.
I watched it all on the kitchen TV while sipping coffee with my left hand, my right hand resting comfortably in a lightweight medical brace.
My phone rang. It was an unknown number with a New York area code.
I swiped to answer.
“Emily?”
The voice was ragged, desperate, and breathless. Derek.
“How did you get this number?” I asked coldly.
“Emily, please, you have to listen to me,” Derek sobbed, the sound of heavy traffic roaring in the background—he was probably calling from a payphone or a burner cell outside some cheap motel. “The banks froze everything. They locked my personal accounts. I don't even have enough cash for a hotel room. Chloe packed her bags and left three hours ago with some lawyer from Providence. I’m ruined, Em.”
“I know,” I said calmly.
“You have to help me! You’re my wife! We’re legally married!”
“Not for long, Derek,” I replied, my voice steady as a rock. “Victoria filed for an emergency dissolution of marriage this morning on the grounds of physical abuse and financial fraud. By the end of the week, you won't even share a last name with me.”
“Emily, please!” he screamed, his voice breaking into a pathetic whine. “I’m sorry! I was stressed, the market was crashing, I made mistakes! I love you!”
“You don't love me, Derek,” I said quietly. “You loved what I could cover up for you. You loved the shield my father’s money provided. And the moment I stopped smiling through your cruelty, you tried to break me.”
I didn't wait for him to answer. I hung up the phone, walked over to the kitchen sink, and dropped the burner number straight into the garbage disposal, flipping the switch with my left hand.
The machine ground it into nothingness.
An hour later, a sleek black town car pulled up outside my front gates.
Marcus Moretti—no, not Marcus, that was a different nightmare—one of Adrian’s senior drivers stepped out, walking up to the front door and ringing the bell.
When I opened it, he handed me a heavy manila envelope bearing the logo of a premier downtown real estate firm.
“Mr. Vale asked me to deliver this to you, Mrs. Vance,” the driver said politely, tipping his hat. “He also asked me to let you know that the brownstone on North Street has been cleared of all previous tenants, and your architectural blueprints have already been delivered to the ground floor.”
I opened the envelope.
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Inside was the deed to the historic North Street building—transferred cleanly, legally, and permanently into my name. And tucked beneath the deed was a small, handwritten note in sharp, elegant ink:
Every great building needs a strong foundation, Emily. It’s time to start rebuilding.
