“She’s both,” Bianca laughed softly. “She came to Marcus Drake—your biggest competitor in maritime logistics. Drake bought her debt, and in return, she gave him Vance Enterprises’ internal codes. But your wife Clara found the discrepancy. Clara had to go. And then, when Camille realized your mother was drafting a new will to bypass her entirely and give everything to little Chloe… well, Camille panicked. She called me back into the game.”
“And what is your cut, Bianca? Why marry me?”
“Because Drake’s payout was only ten million,” she said, her voice dropping into a greedy, covetous purr. “Why settle for crumbs when I could marry the king? A widow’s share of the Vance estate is worth four billion dollars. All I had to do was tolerate you for a year, let your mother die of ‘natural causes,’ and then slip a little something into your nightcap. You’d die of a broken heart, Julian. Grief-stricken billionaire commits suicide after losing his wife and mother. Poetic, don’t you think?”
Julian’s knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. “You underestimated one thing.”
“And what’s that?”
“My mother.”
Julian slammed on the brakes. The sports coupe went into a violent, controlled 180-degree skid, tires screaming against the wet asphalt, stopping dead in the private cobblestone courtyard of the Upper East Side brownstone. The sudden deceleration threw Bianca forward against the seatbelt, knocking her gun hand aside.
Before she could recover, Julian’s left hand struck like a viper, clamping down on her wrist and slamming it against the center console.
CRACK!
Bianca screamed in agony as the bones in her wrist yielded to Julian’s terrifying strength. The .22 pistol dropped into the footwell. Julian did not grab the gun. He reached straight into her coat, snatched the silver clutch, and extracted the glass vial of Digifab.
He shoved the door open, stepped out into the freezing downpour, and pulled his phone from his pocket. He dialed Marcus’s direct encrypted line.
“Marcus!” Julian yelled over the roar of the rain. “I have the Digifab. A police escort is waiting at the corner of 72nd and Park. Meet them immediately and deliver it to Presbyterian Hospital! Evelyn has twenty-two minutes!”
“On it, Boss!” Marcus barked. “A tactical team is already converging on the brownstone! Julian, watch out—Camille’s phone just pinged inside your private study!”
Julian’s head snapped toward the upper floor of the brownstone. Through the three-story gothic windows, a faint, flickering light moved through the darkness of the fourth-floor library.
Julian turned to Bianca, who was stumbling out of the passenger seat, holding her broken wrist, her silver dress soaked and ruined by the rain, her mascara running in black rivers down her pale face.
“You’re finished, Bianca,” Julian said, his voice as cold as the grave.
Bianca looked up at him, and through her pain, she began to laugh hysterically. “You think you saved her? You think this ends with the antidote? Drake’s men are already at the board of directors’ homes with the forged resignations! Camille is upstairs burning the Blue Box right now! Go ahead, Julian! Run up there! Watch your entire legacy turn to ashes!”
Julian turned his back on her and sprinted into the dark, silent house.
The Vance brownstone was a fortress of mahogany, cold marble, and centuries of family history. Julian took the grand spiral staircase three steps at a time, his wet shoes squeaking violently against the polished oak.
The air in the house smelled wrong. It wasn’t the scent of beeswax and old leather that had defined his childhood. It smelled of sulfur, burning paper, and cheap perfume.
He kicked open the heavy double doors of the fourth-floor study.
The room was in shambles. Rare leather-bound first editions were ripped from their shelves, scattered across the Persian rug. The massive mahogany desk belonging to his late father, Arthur Vance, had been ransacked. In the center of the room, standing beside the open stone fireplace, was Camille.
She was soaked in rain, her emerald gown torn at the hem, her hair plastered to her skull. In her hands, she held a heavy, vintage steel cashbox coated in chipped blue enamel. A crowbar lay on the hearth beside her.
She had already thrown several folders into the roaring fire. Flakes of black ash drifted through the air like morbid snow.
“Stop!” Julian’s voice cracked through the room like a gunshot.
Camille jumped, dropping the crowbar with a clatter. She clutched the Blue Box to her chest, backing toward the flames. Her eyes were wild, dilated with sheer terror and adrenaline.
“Stay back, Julian!” she screamed, her voice shaking violently. “Don’t come near me! I swear to God, I’ll throw the whole box in!”
Julian stopped ten feet away. His chest rose and fell in heavy, controlled breaths. Water dripped from his black hair onto his soaked collar.
