Chapter 4 - The Hollow Crown
Back in Greenwich, Connecticut, the Vance household was descending into utter chaos.
The Sunday roast sat cold and congealed on the dining table, abandoned beneath the glare of the crystal chandelier that Emily’s stolen money had purchased. The twelve extended relatives who had spent the afternoon sipping vintage champagne and snickering while Patricia poured ice water on Emily had vanished like roaches when the lights flicked on.
Only Patricia, Daniel, and Vanessa remained, standing in the marble foyer amid an unbearable silence.
Daniel was pacing like a caged animal, his hair disheveled, his expensive silk tie ripped off and discarded on the Persian rug. The sealed envelope Arthur Whitmore had thrown at his feet lay opened across the mahogany console table. Its contents—bank statements, wire transfer receipts, criminal affidavits—were scattered everywhere.
“Daniel, talk to me!” Patricia shrieked for the twentieth time, her voice cracking with hysteria. “Who was that man? What did he mean about three million dollars? You told me you sold a patent to an investment firm in Boston! You told me that was our family money!”
“Shut up, Mom!” Daniel roared, slamming his fist against the wall so hard a framed picture of their trip to Aspen rattled. “Just shut the hell up for one minute!”
Vanessa, huddled on the bottom step of the grand staircase, looked up through tear-streaked mascara. “Daniel… my boutique. The lease on Fifth Avenue is due on Friday. The landlord said if the thirty-thousand-dollar transfer doesn’t clear, he’s locking the doors. Tell me you have the money.”
“There is no money!” Daniel screamed, running both hands over his face, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Everything was tied to the Sterling Heritage Trust account! Every single cent came from Arthur Whitmore’s family reserves!”
Patricia dropped onto a settee, her chest heaving as she pressed a trembling hand against her heart. “The Whitmores? *That* Whitmore? The shipping and defense conglomerate? Daniel… you told me Emily was the runaway daughter of a deadbeat mechanic from upstate New York!”
“Because if you knew she was Arthur Whitmore’s daughter, you would have treated her like a queen!” Daniel spat viciously, his handsome facade completely cracking to reveal the ugly, desperate creature underneath. “And if you treated her like a queen, she would have had the confidence to leave me! I had to keep her broken! I had to make sure she felt like she had nothing in the world except me, otherwise she’d realize I was a nobody riding her coattails!”
“You idiot!” Patricia screamed, lunging to her feet, her maternal pride instantly turning into venomous rage. “You brought the most powerful man in New York down on our heads! Look outside!”
Daniel rushed to the front window and peeled back the sheer curtains.
Parked at the curb was an unmarked black sedan. Two men in dark suits sat inside, watching the house. They weren't police—not yet. They were Whitmore’s private investigators, making sure nobody packed bags and slipped away into the night.
Suddenly, Daniel’s phone began to vibrate violently on the marble table.
He leapt toward it, hoping against hope it was the bank, or his private broker, or maybe even Emily calling to forgive him. He had always been able to manipulate her with a few tears and apologies in the past.
The caller ID displayed the name of Julian Ross, the senior vice president of private banking at Manhattan Trust.
Daniel snatched the phone and pressed it to his ear, his voice trembling as he forced an artificial charm into his tone. “Julian! Thank God. Listen, there’s been a clerical error with the transfers from the trust account this morning—”
“Daniel,” Ross’s voice was ice cold, devoid of the fawning deference he usually showed when Daniel moved hundreds of thousands of dollars. “I am calling to inform you that pursuant to an emergency injunction filed two hours ago in New York State Supreme Court by Whitmore Enterprises, all accounts under your name, your shell corporation Vance Holdings, and your mother’s subsidiary accounts have been completely frozen.”
Daniel felt the blood drain from his head. “Frozen? Julian, you can’t do that! I have payroll! I have mortgages!”
“The court order cites suspected grand larceny and unauthorized power of attorney,” Ross continued relentlessly. “Furthermore, the credit lines extended against the Greenwich property have been called in immediately. The bank has initiated default proceedings. Good day, Daniel.”
The line went dead.
Before Daniel could lower the phone, a loud, heavy knock rattled the front door.
Vanessa let out a terrified squeak. Patricia froze, clutching her chest.
Daniel slowly walked toward the door, his heart hammering against his ribs like a sledgehammer. He pulled it open, expecting federal marshals with handcuffs.
Instead, a young, impeccably dressed woman stood on the porch holding a leather portfolio. Behind her stood two uniformed Greenwich police officers.
“Daniel Vance?” she asked smoothly.
“Who wants to know?” Daniel rasped.
“My name is Victoria Vance—no relation, fortunately,” the woman said with a razor-thin smile. “I am chief legal counsel to Arthur Whitmore and Emily Whitmore. I am here to formally serve you with a temporary restraining order barring you, Patricia Vance, and Vanessa Vance from coming within one thousand yards of Emily Whitmore.”
She handed him a thick blue-backed legal document.
“And secondly,” Victoria added, her eyes sweeping over the grand foyer with utter distaste, “this property is titled under Vance Holdings, which was purchased entirely with funds illegally diverted from the Sterling Trust. As of 8:00 AM tomorrow, a writ of seizure will be executed. I suggest you start packing your clothes. Leave the furniture. Everything inside this house was bought with stolen money, and an inventory team will be here at dawn.”
“You can’t throw us on the street!” Patricia shrieked, rushing forward. “I am an old woman! My son is an entrepreneur!”
Victoria didn't even blink. She looked at Patricia with the cold detachment one might reserve for an insect.
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“You should have thought about that, Mrs. Vance, before you dumped a bucket of ice water on a woman with double pneumonia.” Victoria turned on her heel and walked down the steps. “See you in court, Mr. Vance.”
***
