Chapter 5 - THE GATES OF ATHERTON
The fog rolled thick over the San Francisco Bay by 3:00 AM, wrapping the grand iron gates of the Vance estate in a ghostly shroud.
Julian’s Bentley idled on the dark asphalt, its headlights cutting amber beams through the mist. He didn't bother using the intercom this time. He got out of the car, walked right up to the wrought-iron bars, and gripped them with both hands, staring up at the security cameras mounted on the stone pillars.
“Eleanor!” he shouted into the damp night air. “Ellie, I know you’re awake! Open the damn gate!”
Inside the main manor, I was sitting by the library fireplace, sipping chamomile tea while reading a legal briefing on asset liquidation. Through the security monitor on my tablet, I watched Julian howling into the wind like a broken dog.
My father walked into the library, his silk bathrobe tied loosely around his waist, holding a glass of scotch. He glanced down at my tablet screen, watching Julian rattle the iron bars.
“Want me to have him removed?” my father asked calmly.
“No,” I said, setting my teacup down. “Let him rattle. It builds character.”
Harrison Vance sat down in the leather armchair opposite me, studying my face with sharp, discerning eyes. “You loved him once.”
“I loved a version of him that didn't exist,” I replied honestly. “I loved the man who stayed up late eating cold pizza in a garage while we sketched out the future of transportation on whiteboards. When the money rolled in, and the tech blogs started calling him a visionary, he decided the garage memories were just inconvenient background noise. He replaced me with an accessory who knew how to stroke his ego.”
“And now he wants to negotiate,” my father noted, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
“He doesn't want to negotiate. He wants to surrender on his terms. But there are no terms left.”
On the tablet screen, Julian finally gave up shaking the gate. He dropped his forehead against the cold iron bars, his shoulders shaking with exhaustion, frustration, and cold, hard reality.
My phone buzzed on the side table. An incoming message from an unknown encrypted number.
I picked it up. It was a text from Julian’s personal burner phone:
Please, Ellie. Name your price. Equity, cash, whatever you want. Just don’t let Apex crush us.
I stared at the screen for a long, quiet moment. Then, with absolute calm, I tapped out my reply:
May you like
You should’ve moved faster, Julian.
I blocked the number, tossed the phone onto the cushion, and turned back to the fireplace as the flames crackled in the dark.
