Chapter 12 - THE UNANNOUNCED ARRIVAL
At 3:00 PM on the following Tuesday, the tranquil peace of our Milton estate was interrupted by the chime of the perimeter gate intercom.
Leo was at the stables, laughing as the head trainer helped him saddle his gentle speckled pony, Barnaby barking playfully beside the paddock rails.
I stood in the sunlit kitchen chopping fresh peaches for an afternoon cobbler when the security monitor on the counter lit up.
Parked outside the heavy iron gates was a sleek black luxury sedan. Standing near the pedestrian keypad, wearing an expensive tailored overcoat and gold-rimmed sunglasses, was forty-two-year-old Julian Vance.
Julian had never visited our home. During the year of trials, he had carefully avoided public association with Clara, pretending to be a neutral corporate executive in Savannah. But with his sister’s appeals collapsing and his offshore accounts freezing one by one, desperation had finally driven him to our front door.
Lucas walked into the kitchen, his dark hair neatly cut, wearing an open-collared white linen shirt and trousers, his jaw set like iron.
"Stay with Leo in the gardens, Emily," Lucas said gently, resting a warm hand on my shoulder.
"I’m coming with you, Lucas," I replied firmly. "Julian is my brother by blood, but he allowed Clara to put chains on a child. He faces both of us."
Lucas looked at me, a proud smile touching his lips. He nodded.
We walked out onto the wide stone portico as the security gate swung open under Marcus's remote authorization.
Julian drove his sedan up the circular motor court, stepping out with polished leather shoes, adjusting his designer cuffs with manufactured arrogance.
"Emily. Lucas," Julian announced, taking off his sunglasses, his sharp, aristocratic features looking around at the soaring timber beams, the lake, and the manicured pastures. "Quite an impressive kingdom you built out here in Milton while Clara rots inside Arrendale State Prison."
Lucas stepped to the edge of the stone terrace, his six-foot-two frame commanding the space like an impenetrable wall.
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"You have sixty seconds to state your business on this land, Julian," Lucas said, his voice dropping into a register colder than Arctic frost.
Julian sneered, tapping a leather folio against his thigh. "I’m here to offer a business compromise, Lucas. Release the Savannah commercial trust, and I withdraw the Fulton County probate appeal. Refuse... and tomorrow morning, my lawyers will unseal depositions that will keep this estate tangled in public litigation for the next five years."
