Chapter 5 - The Desperate Flight
By Saturday evening, the ground beneath Ethan Vance’s feet had completely collapsed.
The defamation lawsuit hit the New York legal dockets like a cruise missile, picked up by every major financial publication from The Wall Street Journal to Reuters.
Sophia’s personal spending accounts were subpoenaed, exposing hundreds of thousands of dollars paid to smear firms and private investigators.
Worse for Ethan, three major Manhattan commercial banks rejected his loan refinancing applications within twenty minutes of receiving our credit advisory.
Vance Holdings was bleeding cash, its stock rating downgraded to junk status, while its thirty-four-million-dollar debt deadline loomed just four days away.
At seven o'clock on Sunday morning, my security director called my private line at the Mayfair estate.
"Director Sterling, Ethan Vance just cleared customs at Heathrow on the red-eye from JFK."
"Did he come alone?" I asked, tying the belt of my robe as I looked out at the rainy garden.
"No, ma'am. Sophia Reynolds arrived on the same flight. They’ve booked a suite at the Dorchester on Park Lane."
I let out a soft, humorless chuckle.
They thought that crossing an ocean would allow them to corner me in person, believing that my past affection for Ethan would make me fold.
They had forgotten that London was my home ground, where the Sterling family had lived, built, and ruled for three hundred years.
At ten o'clock, the main entrance intercom of the Sterling estate buzzed.
Ethan stood outside the massive iron gates in the drizzling rain, his coat collar turned up, clutching an umbrella.
Beside him stood Sophia, shivering in high heels, looking pale and utterly terrified as our armed private security team stood watch.
I didn't meet them at the gate.
I had our head of security escort them to the outer carriage house, an unheated stone pavilion once used for equestrian tack.
When I walked through the arched stone doorway, dressed in an immaculate charcoal wool suit and black leather gloves, Ethan bolted out of his chair.
"Elena!" Ethan cried out, rushing forward with his hands outstretched.
Two of my security officers stepped in front of him instantly, their hands resting flat against his chest, stopping him dead in his tracks.
"Keep your distance, Mr. Vance," the lead guard barked in a clipped military accent.
Ethan’s face was haggard, his eyes bloodshot, his tailored suit wrinkled from twenty hours of travel.
"Elena... please," Ethan pleaded, his voice breaking into a ragged, desperate whisper.
"Call off the receivership notice! My suppliers are refusing to ship cargo! The banks have frozen my operating lines!"
I looked at him, feeling no anger, no pain—only the cold, clinical detachment of a surgeon examining a rotting limb.
"You should have thought about your operating lines before you raised your hand against me in Manhattan, Ethan."
Sophia stepped forward, trying to maintain her delicate, aristocratic facade despite her ruined makeup.
"Elena, this has gone too far," Sophia said, her voice trembling with barely suppressed panic.
"My father’s company has done nothing wrong! The NordTech project is our family's entire future!"
"Your father's company paid thirty thousand dollars to smear my daughter’s mother across the financial press, Sophia," I replied, my gaze locking onto hers with terrifying stillness.
"You thought you could destroy my reputation to secure a contract?"
"I didn't know the blog would go that far!" Sophia sobbed, clutching Ethan’s sleeve.
"Ethan told me you were just an administrative worker! He said you had no power!"
Ethan flinched, pulling his arm away from Sophia as if her touch were toxic.
"Shut up, Sophia!" Ethan snapped at her, his voice raw with bitter resentment.
"You told me your father could secure thirty million from European investors! You promised me we didn't need Elena's bank!"
The two lovers turned on each other right there in the damp stone pavilion, bickering like cornered rats while their empires crumbled around them.
I watched the spectacle in silence for two minutes before tapping the floor once with the heel of my boot.
The room went dead silent.
"Tomorrow morning at nine," I announced, looking between the two of them,
"The NordTech selection committee convenes in Oslo."
"I will see both of you in the boardroom."
May you like
"And Ethan?" I added, turning toward the doorway.
"Your thirty-four million is due at noon on Wednesday. Start packing your office."
