Chapter 4 - Behind Closed Doors
The tension in the grand hall became an unbearable vacuum. Holloway gave me a brisk nod, posted his two escorts outside the room, and stepped back to allow me passage toward the private library down the east wing.
"Clarissa! Get back here!" Arthur hissed, following me down the corridor with hurried, furious strides. Julian trailed behind him like a frightened shadow.
I pushed open the heavy oak doors of Grandfather’s private study—a sanctuary lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, old leather wingback chairs, and the faint, nostalgic scent of pipe tobacco and gun oil. I walked over to the mahogany desk, placed the black case down, and turned to face them.
Arthur slammed the study door behind him. The lock clicked.
"What game are you playing?" Arthur snarled, his face twisted with rage. "You humiliated me in front of the entire defense board! You humiliated Julian! You think because you put on some brass and a few medals you can come into my house and dictate terms to me?"
"This isn't your house, Arthur," I said evenly, unbuttoning my soaked trench coat and tossing it over the back of a chair. Beneath it, my service dress uniform was immaculate. The rows of ribbons on my chest—combat action, defense meritorious service, valor citations—glowed under the soft library lamps.
Julian stared at my chest, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. "Two Silver Stars? You told us you were doing an administrative rotation in Belgium."
"I didn't tell you anything," I said coldly. "Arthur told you that. Because Arthur couldn't accept that his only daughter chose an oath to the Constitution over an unpaid internship at his venture capital firm."
"You threw away the family legacy!" Arthur shouted, stepping closer and slamming his open palm on the desk. "You abandoned a billion-dollar empire to crawl in the mud! And for what? So a dead man could hand you a lockbox at his wake?"
He pointed a shaking finger at the Pelican case. "Open it. Right now. I know what’s in there. The old man was losing his mind this last year. He had his personal attorneys drawing up revised trusts and corporate audits. That box contains the family shares. Hand it over, Clarissa. You don't have the stomach for what Vance Industries actually does."
"I know exactly what Vance Industries does," I replied, holding his furious gaze without blinking. "You build guidance systems that fail half their field stress tests, and you charge the taxpayer three times the price because you have Julian playing golf with congressional budget staffers."
"You ungrateful little—"
"Back up, Arthur." My voice dropped an octave. It wasn't the voice of a daughter arguing at Thanksgiving. It was the voice I used when a field trauma unit was taking mortar fire and I needed surgeons to amputate without shaking.
May you like
Arthur stopped. For the first time in his life, he saw the predator in his daughter's eyes.
I placed my thumb on the scanner. The case clicked. A faint hiss of pressurized air escaped the seal as the heavy latches popped open.
