Chapter 6 - The Midnight Raid on the West Wing
The red and blue emergency lights danced across the vaulted ceilings of the mansion, painting the Renaissance art and gold-leaf trim in flashing hues of violence. Four Beverly Hills patrol units and two unmarked black sedans carrying plainclothes detectives from the financial crimes division sat parked across the circular driveway, their engines idling.
Detective Raymond Miller, a grizzled investigator with twenty-five years on the force, sat across from me in my private study. On the desk between us lay Harrison’s silver tablet, three cloned hard drives from the estate’s local server room, and printouts of thirty-two offshore wire transfers executed over the preceding seven months.
"It’s clean, Mr. Vance," Detective Miller said, tapping a ballpoint pen against the Cayman routing manifest. "Harrison didn't just skim domestic payroll. He was using your residential maintenance LLC as a washing machine. Cash deposits coming in from unlicensed art consignments in New York, mixed into payroll outflows, then routed through shell companies registered under Victoria Vance and Chloe Sterling."
I leaned back in my leather chair, feeling an exhaustion so deep it felt like lead settled in my bones. "How much, Raymond?"
"Total diversion over eighteen months? Just shy of 2.4 million dollars." Miller shook his head in disbelief. "And while they were moving millions, they choked off sixty-two thousand dollars in basic living wages to your ground staff. That’s not just fraud, Julian. That’s malice. That’s deliberate cruelty."
A sudden crash echoed from the West Wing of the estate, followed by the muffled shouting of female voices.
Miller sighed, standing up and adjusting his holster. "Looks like your sister-in-law isn't taking the search warrant gracefully."
I followed Miller down the hallway toward the guest suites. In the corridor outside Chloe’s bedroom, two female officers were struggling to secure handcuffs around Chloe’s wrists. Her designer leather jacket was torn, her blonde hair hung in ratty clumps across her face, and her mascara was smeared down her cheeks like war paint.
"You have no right!" Chloe screamed, spitting at the nearest officer. "Julian, call your corporate lawyers! Call the mayor! My father will destroy every single one of you badge-wearing pigs! Julian! Tell them who I am!"
"I know exactly who you are, Chloe," I said, stopping three feet from her. "You are an unrepentant thief who built a mountain of debt on vanity and vice, and then let working-class mothers pay the interest with their starvation."
"You arrogant bastard!" she shrieked. "You think you're God because you have billions? Victoria hates you! She has laughed behind your back for five years! She stayed with you for the trust fund, you pathetic, loveless nerd!"
Detective Miller signaled the officers. "Take her down to the transport cruiser. Charge her with felony grand larceny, conspiracy to commit interstate fraud, and resisting arrest."
As they dragged Chloe kicking and screaming down the grand staircase, I walked into her guest bedroom.
The room was in shambles. Dresser drawers were pulled out, designer luggage lay open on the king-sized bed, and forensic officers were cataloging high-end jewelry, rolls of cash, and small, labeled velvet pouches retrieved from behind the headboard.
Then, sitting on the floor in the corner of the dressing room, I saw Victoria.
She was stripped of her fur and jewelry. She sat huddled on the carpet, hugging her knees, her emerald gown ruined with tears and lint. When she looked up and saw me standing in the doorway, her lips trembled.
"Julian..." she choked out. "They took my passport. They took my wedding ring. Tell them to give it back. Please. We can fix this. I'll enter rehab. I'll go to therapy. I'll apologize to the Mexican woman on my knees in front of the press if that’s what you want!"
I stared at the woman I had promised to love until death did us part.
There was no sorrow in her eyes. There was no remorse for Rosa, or Camila, or Carlos, or the years of suffering she had casually manufactured to buy runway clothes. There was only the raw, hysterical horror of a narcissist who had lost her audience and her status.
"You called Rosa 'the Mexican woman,'" I said softly.
Victoria blinked, uncomprehending. "What?"
"Her name is Rosa Martinez," I said. "Her daughter’s name is Camila. She has worked eighty hours a week in this house for three years. She knew every allergy you had. She made sure your tea was precisely eighty degrees every morning. And to you, after all this, she is still just 'the Mexican woman.'"
I pulled an envelope from my inner pocket. Inside was a legal document my corporate attorneys had drafted thirty minutes ago.
"What is that?" Victoria whispered, shrinking back against the wardrobe.
"An unconditional surrender," I said, tossing the envelope onto the carpet between her bare feet. "A total waiver of all claims under our prenuptial agreement. You sign away every claim to the Vance estate, every trust, every property, and every monthly allowance. In exchange, my legal team will not petition the district attorney to seek the maximum twenty-year penalty for the corporate identity fraud you committed using my deactivated signature tokens."
May you like
Victoria looked at the document, then looked up at me with sheer hatred burning behind her tears. "You're leaving me with nothing? After eight years?"
"You didn't leave Rosa with enough money to buy milk for her daughter tonight," I answered. "Sign the paper, Victoria. Or spend the next two decades eating breakfast in a federal detention center in Victorville."
