Chapter 9 - Desperate Measures
Six weeks later.
The sunset over the Pacific Coast Highway was a blazing streak of violet and crimson as the autumn chill began to settle over Malibu.
I sat inside the glass-walled study of my private oceanfront compound in Malibu Colony—a property Rodrigo had never known existed, purchased under my maternal family’s private trust seven years ago.
The divorce was finalized forty-eight hours ago.
Judge Martinez had executed a summary judgment of absolute dissolution on grounds of felony domestic battery, fraud, and breach of fiduciary duty. Rodrigo had been stripped of every single marital claim. Under the terms of the settlement, he owed the Vance Family Trust twenty-one million dollars in restitution—a debt that would hang around his neck until the day he died.
Sanders Crest Construction was dead. The corporate shell had been dissolved, its equipment sold off to pay union wages and outstanding vendor liens.
Evelyn was sitting in a state correctional facility awaiting her plea hearing, having already traded her designer emerald gown for orange cotton scrubs.
I was finally free.
Or so I thought.
At 8:15 PM, my private encrypted line buzzed on the mahogany desk. It wasn't Daniel. It was Marcus.
“Clara,” Marcus said, his voice tense, urgent. “We have a breach.”
I stood up immediately, walking toward the ballistic glass windows overlooking the private beach. “Where?”
“Rodrigo,” Marcus replied, the sound of heavy boots running over gravel coming through the speaker. “He made bail twenty minutes ago.”
My heart skipped a violent beat. “Bail? His bail was set at seven million dollars cash! How did he raise seven million dollars?”
“An anonymous corporate surety bond wired from an account in Zurich,” Marcus said grimly. “We didn't get the alert until the release order was processed through the downtown detention complex. Clara, our perimeter sensors at the PCH entrance just tripped. He’s on the grounds.”
Before I could answer, the heavy double glass doors leading out to the oceanfront terrace shattered with an explosive, deafening roar.
Tempered glass rained down across the white oak floors.
A figure stumbled through the jagged opening, wielding a heavy steel crowbar, his clothes stained with grease and rain.
Rodrigo.
He was gaunt, his cheeks sunken, his eyes bloodshot and blazing with an unhinged, manic frenzy. The bespoke suits and arrogant swagger were gone; in their place was a feral animal cornered in the dark.
“Clara!” he screamed, his voice hoarse, cracking with pure madness.
I didn't scream. I didn't run.
My hand moved smoothly into the top drawer of the mahogany desk, wrapping around the cold, textured grip of the Kimber 9mm handgun Thomas had insisted I keep loaded.
I raised the weapon, leveling the barrel directly at the center of his chest.
“Take one more step, Rodrigo,” I said, my voice steady, ice running through my veins. “And I will put two rounds through your heart.”
Rodrigo froze, the crowbar trembling in his right hand. He stared down the black barrel of the gun, then looked up into my eyes, let out a wet, ragged laugh that sounded like dry leaves scraping across concrete.
“You’re going to shoot me?” he wheezed, wiping spit from his chin with the sleeve of his dirty jacket. “Go ahead! Shoot me, Clara! You’ve already killed me! You took my company! You took my cars! You locked my mother in a cage with murderers and junkies! You ruined my life!”
“You ruined your own life the second you struck me,” I replied, my finger tightening against the trigger slack. “Drop the crowbar.”
“You think you won?” Rodrigo sneered, taking a slow, shuffling step to the left, his eyes darting frantically around the luxury study. “You think because you paid off the judges and bought the media that you’re safe? You’re a cold, barren bitch who bought a husband because nobody would ever love you for who you are!”
“Drop the weapon, Rodrigo.”
“Who paid my bail, Clara?” he suddenly whispered, a grotesque, yellowed grin stretching across his cracked lips.
I kept my aim centered on his sternum. “I don't care. The police will have you back in a cell within an hour.”
“You should care,” Rodrigo chuckled, his shoulders shaking with silent, hysterical laughter. “You think I’m the only one who hated you? You think I’m the only one who wanted to see Vance Global burned to the ground?”
He dropped the crowbar onto the floor with a loud, metallic clatter.
He raised both hands in the air, his eyes gleaming with malicious triumph.
“The seven million didn't come from my friends, Clara,” Rodrigo hissed, leaning forward, his voice dropping into a venomous whisper that chilled me to the marrow. “It came from someone who knew you long before I met you in that hotel bar. Someone who’s been waiting for you to strip away your corporate guards.”
Heavy footsteps thundered down the hallway.
Marcus and Thomas burst through the study doors, weapons drawn. In less than two seconds, Thomas had Rodrigo tackled face-first onto the shattered glass, twisting his arms behind his back with bone-cracking force.
Rodrigo didn't fight back. He just pressed his bleeding cheek into the broken glass, laughing hysterically into the floorboards.
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“He’s coming for you, Clara!” Rodrigo screamed as Marcus drove a knee into his spine, clicking heavy steel cuffs over his wrists. “He’s coming for everything your father stole from him!”
***
