Chapter 3 - The Panic Sets In and the Gates Are Locked
Before Julian or Margaret could process who I was talking to on speakerphone, I tapped the screen to end the call, slipped the phone back into my pocket, and turned on my heel.
"Elena! Who the hell was that?" Julian barked, abandoning the dresser and taking two aggressive steps toward the hallway. His silk robe flew open, exposing his chest as panic finally broke through his arrogant facade. "Who were you calling? Put your phone on the speaker right now! You can't just bring outside drama into our home!"
"Your home?" I turned back, offering a smile so razor-sharp it made Julian freeze in his tracks. "Julian, darling, check the title deed. Check the mortgage. Check the corporate tax ID on this entire multi-million-dollar estate."
Margaret’s face lost every ounce of color, turning the shade of old parchment paper. "What... what are you talking about, Elena? Julian owns this property. His name is on the grand entrance plaque."
"Julian’s name is on a decorative plaque that I funded," I said, stepping backward down the hallway toward the grand staircase. "The mortgage was underwritten by Sterling Holdings LLC. Every single square foot of hardwood, every crystal chandelier, and every square inch of land legally belongs to my father's corporate trust. And as of sixty seconds ago, that trust has officially terminated your residential lease agreement due to gross breach of contract, moral turpitude, and unauthorized commercial use of private residential premises."
"You're bluffing!" Chloe shrieked, finally leaping out of bed, still wrapped in my robe, her hair wild and face contorted in sudden terror. "Julian, tell her she's bluffing! Call your lawyer! Get this crazy bitch out of here!"
Julian didn't move. He stood frozen in the doorway of the master bedroom, his brain frantically trying to calculate the mathematical impossibility of my words. He knew my maiden name was Elena Vance—wait, no, my maiden name was Elena Sterling. He had assumed "Sterling" was just a common coincidence, too self-absorbed and blinded by his own corporate ladder-climbing to ever look up my family background or check the ultimate beneficiary registry of the massive holding company that had bailed out his failing startup four years ago.
"You're... you're an Arthur Sterling daughter?" Julian whispered, the color draining entirely from his face until he looked like a corpse. "The... the shipping Sterlings? From New York?"
"Bingo," I said sweetly.
Suddenly, a loud, heavy mechanical thud echoed from the front foyer downstairs.
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Clank. Whir. Lock.
The automated smart-security gates at the end of our driveway had just slammed shut and bolted themselves from the outside, synchronized with the heavy iron deadbolts on the front double doors, trapping everyone inside.
