Chapter 3 - Midnight on the Highway
I didn't grab my coat. I didn't stop for my handbag or car keys. I walked out of the Vance manor into the teeth of the Connecticut winter, letting the freezing December air bite into the burns on my skin.
Behind me, the heavy oak doors remained shut. Julian didn't chase after me. He wouldn't risk freezing in his dinner jacket, nor would he defy Eleanor’s command to let me "walk it off and learn some humility."
The snow crunched beneath my leather flats as I walked down the two-mile winding driveway that led to the wrought-iron perimeter gates. The bitter cold was a mercy; it numbed the fiery agony on my neck and chest, crystallizing the lobster broth into frozen crusts against my ruined cashmere.
When I reached the gatehouse at the bottom of the hill, the security guard—an older man named Frank who had always pitied me—stepped out of his booth, his eyes widening in horror at the sight of my swollen face, bleeding lip, and drenched clothes.
"Mrs. Vance? My God, what happened to you? Let me call an ambulance—"
"No ambulance, Frank," I whispered, shivering violently as shock finally set in. "Just let me use your landline. Please."
He rushed me into the heated booth, wrapping his thick wool security jacket around my trembling shoulders, and pushed the telephone toward me.
My fingers were stiff from the cold, but muscle memory took over. I didn't dial Julian. I didn't dial any of the polite, vapid socialite friends Julian had curated for me.
I dialed a private, unlisted ten-digit number I hadn't called since the day I walked down the aisle three years ago.
It rang twice before a deep, gravelly voice answered, authoritative and crisp despite the late hour. "Speak."
"Dad," I choked out.
The silence on the other end lasted less than a heartbeat. The gruff demeanor vanished instantly, replaced by the razor-sharp focus of Arthur Sterling—the man who controlled half the commercial real estate on the Eastern Seaboard and held the debt notes of the country's most powerful families.
"Claire?" His voice dropped an octave, vibrating with an ancient paternal protectiveness. "Claire, what's wrong? You're breathing hard."
"I was wrong, Dad," I whispered, tears finally freezing on my lashes. "You were right about Julian. You were right about all of them."
"Where are you?" Arthur didn't waste breath asking for details. He was a man of cold, brutal action.
May you like
"Greenwich. The guard booth at the Vance estate gate."
"Don't move," Arthur commanded. "My private security team is already stationed in Stamford. They'll be there in seven minutes. Come home, sweetheart. The Sterling family is taking the gloves off."
