Chapter 7 - The Arrest in Ivory Silk
“Security! Julian, kill the microphones!”
Vivienne’s voice was still echoing off the high, vaulted ceiling of the ballroom as the guests remained frozen in pure terror.
I didn't stop moving. Step by agonizing step, I closed the distance between myself and the altar. The scent of thousands of white orchids was overwhelming, clashing sickeningly with the smell of scorched fabric and hospital disinfectant clinging to my skin.
Julian stepped down from the raised platform, his hands raised defensively in front of him, trying desperately to interpose himself between me and the high-profile society photographers whose cameras had begun to flash uncontrollably.
“Listen to me, whoever you are,” Julian hissed through clenched teeth, his voice a desperate, frantic whisper that he hoped wouldn't carry. “I don't know what kind of sick stunt you’re pulling, but I will give you two million dollars right now if you turn around and walk out those doors.”
I stopped five feet from him.
Slowly, I raised my head, letting the full glare of the crystal chandeliers illuminate my face—the scarred cheek, the unmistakable silver-gray eyes, the cold, merciless contempt carved into my expression.
“Two million, Julian?” I asked clearly, my raspy voice amplified through the hotel’s surround-sound speakers via the wireless mic Marcus had clipped to my lapel. “That’s a rather steep drop from the fifty million you stole from my trust to bail out your bankrupt hedge fund.”
Julian staggered backward as if I had struck him with an iron bar.
“You…” he choked out, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “You were… you were locked in—”
He stopped himself abruptly, his hands flying to his mouth, but the slip was fatal.
“Locked in where, Julian?” I demanded, taking another step forward. “Finish the sentence. Locked in the Blackwood Grove Psychiatric Facility? The unregistered hellhole in Maine where you and my loving sister paid Dr. Sean Adler five hundred thousand dollars to keep Mary Crane drugged into silence?”
“Shut up!” Vivienne shrieked, breaking away from her bridesmaids.
She abandoned her ivory bouquet, letting it trample beneath the hem of her designer gown as she rushed to the edge of the altar. Her manicured hands were shaking uncontrollably, her perfect composure shattering into jagged, hysterical pieces.
“You’re a fraud! You’re an imposter!” Vivienne screamed, pointing a trembling finger at me. “My sister Evelyn died in a fire! I held her funeral! I buried her ashes with my own hands!”
“You buried pig bones, Vivienne,” a booming, authoritative voice echoed from the back of the ballroom.
Every guest turned their heads simultaneously.
Marching down the ivory aisle runner, his heavy leather boots leaving no room for argument, was Special Agent Thomas Vance—my second cousin, and one of the lead investigators for the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s financial crimes division.
Flanking him were six uniformed Boston Police officers and two federal marshals in dark tactical vests.
Beside Agent Vance walked Dr. Sean Adler, his hands secured behind his back in stainless steel handcuffs, his expensive suit disheveled, his head hanging in total, broken defeat.
Vivienne gasped, her knees buckling slightly beneath the heavy silk skirts. “Dr. Adler…?”
“Dr. Adler was arrested two hours ago at Logan International Airport attempting to board a flight to Zurich,” Agent Vance announced to the entire ballroom, holding up an official federal warrant. “He has already signed a full confession detailing the conspiracy to falsify the death certificate of Evelyn Vance, the chemical kidnapping, and the illegal transfer of corporate assets.”
A collective gasp swept through the three hundred guests.
Lady Eleanor stood up from the front row, her face white with fury, her cane raised toward Vivienne. “You monster… you unnatural, greedy monster!”
Julian turned to flee toward the side stage exit, but two federal marshals cut him off instantly, tackling him to the polished marble floor. His designer tuxedo tore against the stone; his diamond cufflinks went skittering across the floor into the crowd.
“Julian Sterling-Cross,” a marshal barked, wrenching Julian’s arms behind his back and snapping the cuffs shut with a sharp, metallic click. “You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit kidnapping, wire fraud, securities fraud, and attempted murder.”
Vivienne looked around frantically, searching for a single friendly face among the crowd of Boston's elite.
She found none.
Friends she had known since childhood shrank back in revulsion. Investors who had toasted her ten minutes ago turned their backs, pulling out their phones to instruct their brokers to dump Vance Global stock before the market closed.
I stepped onto the altar platform.
I walked directly up to my younger sister until I was standing less than an inch away from her. The smell of her expensive French perfume was sickening.
“You took everything, Vivienne,” I whispered, my voice cold enough to freeze water. “My life. My name. My freedom. My face.”
I reached up with both hands.
Vivienne flinched, sobbing hysterically, but she couldn't move. Her spine hit the altar rail, trapping her in place.
My fingers found the clasp of our mother’s ninety-carat emerald collar at the back of her neck. With a swift, practiced motion, I unhooked the platinum latch.
I pulled the heavy, gleaming jewels from her throat, feeling the cool weight of the emeralds settle into my palm.
“This never belonged to you,” I said softly.
“Evelyn, please!” Vivienne wailed, dropping to her knees, clutching at the tattered hem of my medical gown with both hands, smearing her makeup across the dirty cotton. “I was desperate! Julian manipulated me! He told me we had no choice! Please, Evelyn, you’re my sister! We share the same blood!”
I looked down at her—at the trembling, pathetic creature sobbing in her three-million-dollar ivory dress—and felt nothing. No anger. No hatred. Only a profound, absolute emptiness.
“I had a sister once,” I said, pulling my gown from her desperate grasp. “She died four years ago in a cabin fire.”
I stepped back.
Agent Vance stepped forward, pulling a pair of cuffs from his belt.
“Vivienne Vance,” he said coldly. “Put your hands behind your back.”
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The cameras didn't stop flashing as the marshals hauled the bride to her feet, pinning her arms behind her, the ivory silk of her wedding dress crinkling and tearing beneath the iron grip of the law.
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