Chapter 3 - THE VAULT OF SECRETS
The immediate expulsion of Clara was forgotten. In fact, within ten minutes, the grand parlor was completely cleared of all staff. Julian ordered the heavy oak double doors locked from the inside, leaving only Julian, Victoria, little Leo, and Clara standing in the tense, suffocating quiet of the room.
Julian walked slowly toward Clara, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He didn't look like the untouchable billionaire titan who ruled the eastern seaboard; he looked like a man who had just seen a ghost walk out of a grave.
“Give it to me,” Julian whispered, holding out a trembling hand toward Leo.
Leo shrank back, hiding behind Clara’s apron. “No! You’re mean to Clara! You were going to throw her out!”
“Leo, give your father the watch,” Clara murmured gently, her own heart pounding against her ribs. She knelt down beside the boy, resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. Let him see it.”
Reluctantly, Leo unclasped his small fingers and handed the heavy silver timepiece to Clara. She took it and placed it carefully into Julian’s outstretched palm.
Julian’s fingers closed around the metal. With a slow, shaking thumb, he popped open the inner spring-loaded lid of the pocket watch.
There, engraved in immaculate cursive script, were the initials: V.V. — Heir to Vance & Co., 1985.
And beneath that inscription, scratched in smaller, hurried letters that Julian had never seen before, was a date and a name:
“March 14 — Victor Vance is alive. Save our son.”
Julian staggered backward, crashing heavily into an armchair. A low, ragged groan escaped his throat.
“No... no, that’s impossible,” Julian muttered, staring blankly at the engraving. “The fire... the police report... the estate was burned to the ground. My brother Victor, his wife, and their infant son... they were all declared dead in the blaze. I inherited the company legally. The courts approved it!”
Victoria walked over, her face pale as paper, peering down at the inscription. When she read the words, her eyes flared with a desperate, venomous panic.
“It’s a forgery!” Victoria snapped, though her voice shook. “Some disgruntled former employee planted this to blackmail us! Julian, don't fall for this ridiculous trap! Call Marcus! Call security right now and throw this little witch and the brat out!”
“It’s not a forgery, Victoria,” a quiet, steady voice interrupted from the doorway.
Everyone spun around.
Standing in the doorway of the private study, leaning heavily on a carved wooden cane, was Arthur Vance—Julian’s eighty-two-year-old uncle, who had lived in virtual seclusion on the third floor of the mansion for the last decade, paralyzed by a stroke and forgotten by everyone.
No one had heard him wheel or walk down the private elevator. But there he stood, his milky, aged eyes fixed directly upon the pocket watch in Julian’s hand.
“Uncle Arthur?” Julian breathed, shocked. “What are you... how did you get down here?”
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Arthur took a slow, painful step forward, his cane tapping rhythmically against the floorboards.
“I didn't need to walk down, Julian,” the old man said, his voice raspy and deep. “I’ve been watching you build your empire on a foundation of ash and blood for twenty-five years. And I’ve been waiting for someone to finally dig up the truth you tried so hard to bury in the nursery floor.”
