Chapter 16 - Century City Showdown
Monday morning arrived with a heavy, gray marine layer that cast a shroud over the skyscrapers of Century City. The glass-and-steel monoliths loomed overhead like silent sentinels as my black town car pulled up to the curb outside Goldstein & Associates' high-rise office building.
I stepped out of the vehicle wearing a bespoke charcoal-gray tailored suit, a crisp white shirt, and a midnight-blue silk tie. My hair was neatly trimmed, and my posture was rigid, radiating absolute, unshakeable calm. Flanking me on either side were Sarah Jenkins and David Vance—no relation, but a terrifyingly sharp forensic accountant who could spot a hidden offshore account from twenty paces.
We didn't look like victims attending a family reconciliation. We looked like a corporate takeover squad executing a hostile acquisition.
We rode the private elevator up to the thirty-second floor, the digital floor numbers ticking upward in absolute silence. When the doors slid open, we stepped into a plush, mahogany-paneled reception area smelling of expensive leather and corporate desperation.
A receptionist with oversized designer glasses looked up from her desk, her eyes widening slightly as she took in our formidable trio. "Can I—can I help you?"
"Ethan Vance and legal representation," I said smoothly, stepping up to the counter. "We’re here for the Vance family mediation scheduled in Conference Room B."
"R-right this way," she stammered, scrambling to hit a button under her desk. The heavy oak door to Conference Room B swung open.
Inside, the scene looked like a tragedy staged by bad actors.
My mother, Evelyn, sat at the head of the polished conference table in a wheelchair, looking remarkably frail with a woolen blanket draped over her knees. Her gray hair was unbrushed, and she stared at me with wide, tear-watered eyes designed to extract maximum emotional damage. Beside her sat Mason, chewing his thumbnail down to the quick, wearing a cheap suit that looked two sizes too big. Alyssa sat next to him, clutching a box of tissues like a shield.
At the other end of the table sat Attorney Goldstein—a greasy man with slicked-back hair and a cheap Rolex—surrounded by stacks of paperwork.
"Ethan!" My mother gasped, her voice trembling with theatrical fragility. "Thank God... you came. My baby boy..."
She raised a shaky, withered hand toward me, expecting me to run to her side, drop to my knees, and beg for forgiveness for daring to protect myself.
I didn't move an inch. I walked slowly into the room, my polished oxford shoes clicking rhythmically against the hardwood floor, and pulled out a chair directly opposite them. I sat down, crossed my legs, and rested my hands neatly on the table.
May you like
Sarah and David flanked me, sliding thick, leather-bound folders onto the table with a heavy, definitive *thud*.
"Good morning, Mr. Goldstein," I said, my voice completely devoid of warmth. "Let's dispense with the theater. You have ten minutes before my legal team initiates criminal referrals for wire fraud, identity theft, and extortion. What do you have to say for yourself?"
