Chapter 5: The Lawyer’s Office
The downtown office of Vance & Holloway occupied the entire top floor of a sleek glass-and-steel tower overlooking the city harbor. Unlike the dusty basement archives, this room was all polished chrome, minimalist leather chairs, and floor-to-ceiling windows that caught the afternoon glare off the water. Arthur Vance, retired trustee and former legal counsel for the family, sat behind a massive glass desk. He was a frail man in his seventies with sharp blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, turning the green jade pendant over in his hands with a look of profound disbelief.
Julian stood beside my chair, his arms crossed over his chest, his presence a solid wall of protection. I sat upright in the leather guest chair, my feet finally touching the floor, wearing a clean navy blue cardigan Julian had bought us that morning.
“I thought this pendant was lost the night Margaret left,” Vance said, his voice dry and papery. He looked up from the jade stone and stared directly at me. “You have her eyes. And her stubborn chin.”
“We found it on the ballroom floor of the Grandview estate, Mr. Vance,” Julian said coldly. “Along with a stack of suppression orders and financial riders that you apparently helped file twenty-eight years ago.”
Vance didn't flinch. He simply set the jade pendant back down on the glass desk, resting his palms flat against the surface. He let out a long, slow sigh that seemed to deflate him by half an inch. “I was Margaret’s attorney before I was Eleanor’s employee. When Margaret realized her mother was going to strip her of everything for refusing an arranged marriage, she hid the assets in a private trust and named her unborn child as sole beneficiary. I helped her set it up because it was legal. I kept quiet about it afterward because Eleanor threatened to disbar me.”
“And the dividends?” Julian pressed, stepping closer to the desk. “Where did Margaret’s quarterly distributions go for the last decade?”
Vance opened a drawer, pulled out a thick manila folder stamped with red confidential markers, and slid it across the glass toward us. “Straight into the foundation's discretionary account. Eleanor used them to fund the new wing of the art museum and maintain her social standing. But legally, every cent belongs to Clara.”
I reached out and touched the corner of the manila folder. Inside were bank statements, wire transfer receipts, and audit trails that spanned over a decade—a mountain of concrete evidence that could not be buried or ignored.
“What’s our next move?” Vance asked, looking between Julian and me with a calculating gaze. “Eleanor is hosting the annual Foundation Gala this coming Saturday at the country club. Every major board member, politician, and media outlet in the state will be in attendance. If you walk in there with these documents, there’s no place left for her to hide the truth.”
May you like
Julian looked down at me, his eyes asking the silent question that mattered most. The ballroom rejection felt like a lifetime ago, yet the sting of Eleanor’s grip on my collar remained fresh in my mind. I looked at the green jade pendant resting on the glass desk, then back up at Julian, and gave him a slow, firm nod.
“We go to the gala,” I said.
