Chapter 4 - The Unseen Trap
By 4:00 AM, my security detail had moved Maya and her brother Leo out of their Brooklyn apartment in blacked-out SUVs under heavy armed guard. They were relocated to my private, heavily fortified estate in the Hamptons—a property Julian Vane had no access to.
Meanwhile, I sat in my penthouse study in Manhattan alongside Marcus and my senior legal strategist, Sarah Chen.
“The legal reality is tricky, Mr. Sterling,” Sarah explained, laying out documents across my mahogany desk. “Maya’s testimony is powerful, but Leo has memory loss and cannot testify. Julian Vane is a master corporate lawyer. He managed your estate’s financial recovery after the fire. If we move against him prematurely, he will destroy documents, move his offshore assets, and claim Maya is an extortionist fabricating stories for money.”
“I don't just want him in prison, Sarah,” I replied, staring at a framed photograph of Isabella smiling before the fire. “I want him stripped of everything he has built on the blood of my family. I want him ruined.”
“Then we force him to expose himself,” Marcus suggested, leaning over the desk. “Julian still thinks Maya is terrified of him. He doesn't know you visited her apartment tonight. If we make him believe Maya is getting ready to go to the District Attorney, he will panic.”
“How do we do that without putting Maya in danger?” Sarah asked.
“We drop a leak,” I said, a cold smile forming on my lips. “Julian’s primary paralegal is on our payroll—she reports directly to Marcus. Have her 'accidentally' leave a draft of an anonymous whistleblower statement on Julian’s desk at eight o’clock this morning. A statement claiming that an eyewitness from the night of the Sterling estate fire has contacted a federal prosecutor.”
Marcus nodded, his eyes gleaming with professional satisfaction. “Julian will immediately attempt to contact his offshore account managers to move his money, and he will send his private fixer to silence the witness.”
“And when he does,” I concluded, tapping my fingers on the desk, “we intercept every wire transfer, record every phone call, and catch him red-handed.”
Just then, my phone buzzed on the desk.
It was a text from the pediatric neurologist staying at my Hamptons home: Mr. Sterling, you need to see this. Isabella has taken twenty steps across the living room without her crutches. She is asking for you.
May you like
A tear slipped down my cheek, but I quickly wiped it away.
“Execute the plan, Marcus,” I ordered, standing up. “I’m going to see my daughter.”
