Chapter 7 - When the Champagne Turns to Poison
The silence that followed my words was heavy enough to crush the air out of the room. Eighty high-society guests—people who had spent years kissing Fiona Vance’s ring and nodding politely at Julian’s fabricated business triumphs—stared at the mother and son duo with unadulterated disgust.
Arthur Pendelton slowly stood up from his chair. His face was dark with righteous fury. He looked down at Binder Number Four—the exhibit detailing how Julian had solicited $250,000 from him under the guise of an algorithmic green energy fund.
“You son of a b****,” Pendelton growled, his voice trembling with aristocratic rage. He glared across the table at Julian, who was cowering against the mahogany sideboard. “You sat at my club, drank my twenty-year-old scotch, and used your wife’s software patents to swindle my retirement portfolio into your mistress’s South Loop apartment?”
“Arthur, please! Let me explain!” Julian pleaded, holding his hands up, sweat pouring down his forehead, soaking his stiff tuxedo collar. “The fund is real! The returns are just delayed due to market volatility! Sloan is manipulating the data to destroy my reputation because our marriage is ending!”
“The fund is a phantom shell company registered in a Delaware strip mall, Mr. Pendelton,” Leo announced, holding up a certified printout from the Delaware Secretary of State. “There are no algorithmic assets. There are no energy securities. The remaining balance in the account as of 8:00 AM this morning is exactly twelve dollars and forty-three cents. Mr. Vance withdrew the last $40,000 yesterday afternoon to purchase a custom platinum watch for himself.”
Mrs. Montgomery slammed her leather-bound copy of Course Number Three onto the table. The heavy binder landed with a loud crack right next to Fiona’s sterling silver butter dish.
“Fifty thousand dollars from the Lyric Opera outreach gala,” Mrs. Montgomery spat, her eyes glaring daggers at Fiona. “You told me that money was going toward violins for underprivileged children on the South Side, Fiona! You looked me in the eyes at the Drake Hotel and swore on your family’s honor!”
“Eleanor, darling, it was a temporary loan!” Fiona cried out, her voice cracking into a high-pitched, desperate wail. She reached out to touch Mrs. Montgomery’s arm, but the older woman recoiled as if Fiona were a venomous snake. “We were going to replenish the funds after Julian’s private equity acquisition closed next month! You know me! You’ve known me for twenty years!”
“I know you’re a thief and a fraud,” Mrs. Montgomery said coldly, grabbing her Hermès handbag from the back of her chair. “And I will be personally contacting the Cook County State’s Attorney the second I walk out this door.”
One by one, the eighty guests began standing up from the long banquet table. The room was filled with the scraping of chairs, the rustle of expensive silk coats, and whispers of unvarnished contempt.
“Unbelievable.”
“A complete sham.”
“Living off his wife’s hard work while parading around like a titan of industry.”
“He locked her in the kitchen? Absolute monster.”
“Wait! Please! Don't leave!” Julian begged, running toward the foyer doors, attempting to physically block Arthur Pendelton and the senior partners from Harrison & Croft from leaving. “We have the main course coming! We can sort this out! Don't let this woman ruin thirty years of friendship!”
Pendelton didn't even slow down. He shoved Julian aside with one broad shoulder, knocking him off balance against the wall.
“If you ever step foot on the grounds of the Chicago Yacht Club again, Vance, I will have the dockmaster throw you into Lake Michigan,” Pendelton snarled. “And you better have your lawyer ready on Monday morning, because my legal team will be filing a federal fraud suit for every dime you stole from me.”
Within five minutes, the grand penthouse was entirely cleared of guests. The front doors clicked shut behind the last departing couple, leaving only the sound of Fiona’s ragged, sobbing breaths echoing through the cavernous 4,500-square-foot duplex.
The grand banquet table was a graveyard of abandoned champagne flutes, overturned silver cloches, and sixty open binders laying bare the complete, unvarnished truth of the Vance family.
Julian slowly turned around from the foyer, his face contorted in pure, unhinged malice. The veneer of the charming, high-society golden boy was completely stripped away, leaving only a cornered, vicious animal.
“You ruined my life,” Julian hissed, his voice dropping into a guttural growl as he took three aggressive strides toward me. “You think you’re smart, Sloan? You think a few court papers are going to save you from me? I built you! Without my family’s name, you’re nothing but a worthless code-monkey from the suburbs! I will burn this entire place to the ground before I let you take a single dime from me!”
He raised his right hand, stepping forward to lunge at me.
He didn't make it two feet.
The heavy front doors of the penthouse burst open with a resounding thud.
Four uniformed Cook County Sheriff’s deputies stepped through the doorway, their hands resting firmly on their tactical utility belts, led by a tall, stern-faced lieutenant with a gold badge pinned to his chest.
“Julian Vance? Fiona Vance?” Lieutenant Miller barked, his commanding voice filling every inch of the vaulted room.
May you like
Julian froze in mid-stride, his hand still raised in the air, his eyes widening in pure horror.
“Step away from Ms. Sterling immediately,” Lieutenant Miller ordered, drawing his heavy leather duty gloves from his belt. “Keep your hands where we can see them. You are currently in violation of an active Cook County Emergency Order of Protection.”
