Chapter 7 - Face to Face Behind Glass
The visiting room at the Greenwich correctional facility was cold, sterile, and smelled faintly of institutional bleach. A thick pane of scratch-resistant plexiglass separated the visitor booths from the inmate stalls.
Julian sat down heavily on the metal stool across from me. In twenty-four hours, the arrogant billionaire heir had aged ten years. His skin was pasty, dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, and the blue prison-issue shirt looked two sizes too large for his slumping shoulders.
He picked up the heavy plastic telephone receiver with a shaking hand. I mirrored his movement, holding the receiver to my ear.
""You played me,"" he whispered, his voice cracking with dry, bitter rage. ""Every single second of our relationship. The dinners in Paris, the trip to St. Moritz, the walks in Central Park... none of it was real.""
""It was as real as your promises were, Julian,"" I answered steadily. ""You didn't marry me because you loved me. You married me because your accountants told you Vance Capital needed ten million dollars in fresh liquidity before the third-quarter audit, and you thought you could manipulate me into handing it over.""
Julian slammed his free fist against the partition, causing the guard at the back door to rest a hand on his holster. ""I gave you everything! I made you a Vance! Do you have any idea how many women in this city would have killed to have the wedding you had at our estate?""
""You didn't give me anything, Julian. You took a vow to protect and honor me at five o'clock on Saturday afternoon, and by eight o'clock on Sunday morning, you raised your hand against me in front of your family because an omelet was too salty.""
Julian flinched, his eyes darting away for a brief second before returning to mine with desperate pleading.
""Elena... please,"" he choked out, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. ""Talk to the DA. Tell them you exaggerated the incident. Tell them you slipped, or that it was a misunderstanding! If you drop the domestic violence complaint, the prenuptial default clause can be challenged in probate court! My father and I can salvage the core assets! We can give you whatever you want—twenty million, thirty million! Just don't let them send me to federal prison!""
""Your father doesn't have thirty million dollars, Julian,"" I said, my voice completely devoid of pity. ""Your family has nothing. This morning, federal marshals arrived at the Greenwich estate to serve the eviction notice. Your mother is currently staying at an airport motel in Queens, paid for with cash Claire managed to scrape together from pawned designer bags.""
Julian let out a ragged, strangled sob, tears finally spilling down his cheeks. ""Why? Why did you hate us this much? What did we ever do to you before this?""
I looked straight into his tear-streaked eyes.
""Does the name David Mercer mean anything to you?""
Julian blinked, his brow furrowing as he tried to dig through the forgotten debris of his family's past conquests. ""Mercer? I... I don't know who that is. Some former employee?""
""He was an auditor,"" I said, each word deliberately measured. ""He was an honest man with a daughter who loved him. And eight years ago, your father destroyed his life and drove him into an early grave to conceal a three-million-dollar accounting fraud.""
Julian stared at me, the blood completely draining from his lips as the final piece of the puzzle locked into place.
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""He was my father,"" I said softly. ""You destroyed his life for pocket change. And now, his daughter has dismantled your entire dynasty before lunchtime.""
I hung up the receiver, stood up from the stool, and walked out of the room, leaving Julian Vance weeping into the cold plastic telephone.
