Chapter 8 - The Interrogation in the West Wing
Genevieve backed against the heavy velvet drapes, her eyes darting frantically toward the four private guards her father had brought to the gala.
The four guards did not move.
They stood pinned against the perimeter wall, the suppressed barrels of Frank’s tactical squad pressed firmly against their ribcages.
“Julian, please!” Genevieve wept, dropping all pretense of aristocratic grace, her hands clawing at her tailored cream dress. “I didn't know they were Rembrandts! My father told me they were family portraits being cleaned for our wedding! I was trying to protect our investment!”
Julian stopped three inches from her face.
He was taller, broader, a wall of pure, immovable retribution.
“You told Clara that some secrets would put her in a pine box before her career started,” Julian said, his voice quiet enough that only she could hear the blade beneath the words. “You told her that my house was yours to command.”
He reached out with his left hand.
With a slow, deliberate movement, he caught the three-carat diamond engagement ring on Genevieve’s finger.
He didn't twist it violently. He closed his fingers around the platinum band and pulled.
The ring came free with a dry, sharp scrape against her knuckle.
Julian held the ring up beneath the chandeliers, then opened his palm and let it drop into the crystal water pitcher on the table.
It sank to the bottom with a dull, hollow clink.
“Take off the dress, Genevieve,” Julian said softly.
Genevieve froze, her eyes dilating in sheer terror. “What... what did you say?”
“The cream silk gown you are wearing was tailored by the Vance family atelier on Newbury Street,” Julian replied, his voice completely flat. “Paid for with my grandfather’s maritime dividends. You do not leave this house wearing anything paid for with honest bread.”
Genevieve began to scream, thrashing as two female security officers stepped forward from the archway.
With clinical, emotionless efficiency, the guards stripped the heavy diamond earrings from her lobes, unzipped the designer gown, and wrapped her in a coarse gray holding blanket from the estate basement.
She stood shivering in her slip on the cold floorboards, her makeup smeared across her cheeks, weeping in blind, suffocating humiliation before two hundred members of the high society she had ruled an hour earlier.
“Charles Sterling, Genevieve Sterling,” Julian announced, his baritone booming across the grand ballroom with undisputed authority. “You are stripped of all maritime charters, all banking concessions, and all territory within the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.”
He looked at Frank.
“Hand them over to Assistant United States Attorney Marcus Vance waiting at the south gate. Every dock, every warehouse, and every asset operating under the Sterling name is seized under the authority of the Vance Maritime Trust.”
Charles Sterling collapsed onto his knees beside his ruined daughter, weeping in broken, hopeless agony as the armed guards hauled them backward down the center aisle.
May you like
Their cries echoed through the vaulted limestone ceiling until the heavy double doors clicked shut forever.
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