Chapter 6: The West Wing Feed
The private security office smelled of cold stale coffee and ozone from the humming server racks that lined the western wall. Miller adjusted his glasses, his fingers flying across the custom mechanical keyboard with a dry, rhythmic clacking that sounded like beetles behind wallpaper. Julian stood right behind him, his tall frame cutting off the light from the overhead fluorescent tubes. His dark hair was slicked back, a few strands falling across his forehead, and the blood stain on his white cuff had dried into a stiff, rust-colored crust. I stayed near the door, my hands folded over the blue and white fabric of my uniform apron, watching the glow of the monitors reflect in the glass of the multi-screen display.
“Here,” Miller muttered, leaning forward so close his nose nearly touched the curved monitor. “The isolated analog feed from the auxiliary circuit. The one Victoria didn’t know was hardwired into the foundation's emergency generator.”
A grainy, black-and-white image flickered onto the center screen. The timestamp at the bottom read 14:14:02. The hallway outside Julian’s private study was silent, the ornate Persian runner absorbing the footsteps of anyone who dared walk its length. At fourteen-sixteen, a shadow detached itself from the recessed alcove near the library double doors. The figure wore a tailored gray wool overcoat that didn't match any standard staff uniform, the collar pulled high to obscure the profile. A gloved hand reached out, holding a small metallic cylinder that looked remarkably like the medical vial we had pulled from Leo’s nursery waste bin not two hours ago.
Julian leaned closer, his broad shoulders tensing until the seams of his shirt strained. “Enhance the reflection in the brass sconce on the left wall,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, metallic register that sent a shiver straight down my spine.
Miller’s fingers tapped furiously. The grainy image sharpened slightly, pixelating into a recognizable silhouette. It wasn't Victoria. The height was wrong, the posture too rigid, the stride too long and purposeful. As the figure turned toward the service corridor leading to the nursery wing, the brass sconce caught the glint of a heavy signet ring on the right pinky finger. A ring bearing the double-chevron crest of the Vance Corporation’s legal counsel, a man who had sat at Julian’s right hand for a decade.
“Arthur Sterling,” Julian whispered, the name dropping into the quiet room like a lead weight hitting a frozen pond. He didn’t shout. He didn’t swear. He simply stood there, perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the frozen frame of his oldest friend and most trusted advisor walking toward his infant son’s room.
“Mr. Vance,” Miller began, his voice trembling as he looked up from the console. “Arthur handles the board relations. If we move on him without checking the corporate accounts first—if this is tied to the hostile acquisition pending next Tuesday—the whole company could—”
“I don’t give a damn about the company,” Julian interrupted, his voice flat, absolute, and terrifyingly cold. He turned his head slowly to look at me, his eyes dark with a mix of fury and sudden, bitter clarity. “Emily. You said people do this for leverage. What kind of leverage makes a corporate attorney poison an infant?”
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“The kind where he’s already sold the company out from underneath you,” I answered, holding his gaze without a blink. “And Leo was the only heir standing in the way of a complete corporate liquidation.”
Julian didn’t waste another second. He turned on his heel, his heavy leather shoes striking the floor with the force of a hammer, and marched straight out of the security room toward the main residence elevators. Miller scrambled to follow him, grabbing a heavy tactical tablet from the desk. I stood alone in the cool hum of the servers for a single heartbeat, listening to the electronic pulse of the house, before stepping out to follow them into the gathering storm.
