Chapter 7 - The Sabotage
Three days before the Grand Winter Ball, war was declared.
It started at 7:00 AM with a frantic phone call from Dr. Kenneth Evans at Mount Sinai.
"Mr. Blake," Dr. Evans said, his voice laced with panic through the speakerphone in the penthouse kitchen. "There's an emergency. A state health inspector arrived thirty minutes ago with a court order demanding Julian Vance be transferred to a public psychiatric facility in upstate New York."
I dropped my coffee cup. It shattered into a dozen pieces against the obsidian floor, dark liquid splashing across my bare feet.
"What psychiatric facility?!" I screamed, grabbing the phone from the counter. "My father is a heart patient! He had surgery four days ago! Who signed that order?!"
"A Judge Harold Finch," Dr. Evans replied, breathing heavily. "Miss Vance, they claim he is a danger to himself and that his medical bills were paid using fraudulent corporate funds under federal investigation. Two armed state marshals are downstairs right now!"
"Harold Finch is Marcus Sterling’s personal pocket judge," Alexander growled, his face turning to pure thunder.
He slammed his hand on the marble counter, his eyes blazing with murderous rage. He reached for his personal phone and dialed Carter.
"Carter, activate security protocol Omega. Lock down the VIP wing at Mount Sinai. Deploy our private tactical unit to the hospital entrance. If anyone—I don't care if they have a federal badge or a papal decree—attempts to touch Julian Vance, put them on the ground."
Alexander hung up and turned to me. I was shaking, tears of terror threatening to blind me.
"Lena, look at me," Alexander commanded, grabbing my shoulders with iron strength. "Look at me!"
I forced my eyes to his.
"Your father will not be touched," Alexander said, his voice flat, calm, and terrifyingly certain. "Marcus is desperate. He knows the shareholder vote is slipping away from him. He knows we have the Vance records. This is his final, pathetic attempt to break your spirit and make you abandon the ball. But I swear to you on my mother’s soul: Julian is safe. Come with me."
Within fifteen minutes, a three-car motorcade of armored black Cadillac Escalades was tearing through the streets of Manhattan with sirens blazing, running red lights with full private security escorts.
When we arrived at Mount Sinai, the entrance to the VIP wing looked like a war zone. Four private security officers from Blake Tactical stood shoulder-to-shoulder, blocking two sweating, furious state marshals and a nervous man in a cheap suit holding a manila folder.
"Stand down!" one of the marshals shouted, his hand resting on his sidearm. "We have a legal court order!"
Alexander stepped out of the elevator like an avenging god.
"That court order is void," Alexander announced, his voice booming down the sterile white hallway. Behind him walked Arthur Pendelton, the most feared appellate defense attorney in the United States, followed by three junior partners carrying heavy leather briefcases.
The marshals froze.
Arthur Pendelton stepped forward, adjusting his tortoiseshell glasses, and thrust a thick stack of papers into the state inspector’s chest.
"At 7:15 this morning, the Chief Justice of the New York Court of Appeals signed an emergency injunction staying Judge Finch’s order," Pendelton said smoothly. "Furthermore, federal agents from the Southern District of New York are currently executing a search warrant on Judge Finch’s private residence in the Hamptons regarding three million dollars in undeclared offshore deposits from Sterling Holdings."
The inspector looked at the papers, his face turning the color of skim milk. "This... this can't be..."
"Leave," Alexander commanded, taking one step forward. The sheer aura of violent authority radiating from him made the two armed marshals take an involuntary step backward. "Before I have you arrested for criminal obstruction of justice and attempted murder of a critical care patient."
The men didn't wait to hear another word. They turned and fled toward the elevators in sheer panic.
I rushed past the guards and pushed open the door to Room 704.
My father sat propped up in his hospital bed. His face was pale, his gray hair thin, but for the first time in ten years, his eyes were clear, focused, and free of the haze of cheap alcohol. He was wearing clean hospital linens, monitors beeping rhythmically beside him, his heart rate steady.
"Lena?" he whispered, his voice trembling.
"Dad!" I threw my arms around him, burying my face into his shoulder, sobbing with overwhelming relief. "Dad, are you okay? Did they hurt you?"
"I’m fine, sweetheart... I’m fine," he murmured, his weak, calloused hands stroking my hair. He looked past me, his gaze locking onto Alexander, who stood quietly in the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back.
My father’s breath hitched. "You... you're Alexander Blake."
"Mr. Vance," Alexander said with deep, genuine respect, bowing his head slightly. "It is an honor to finally meet you."
Julian Vance stared at the billionaire, then looked back at me, tears welling in his aged eyes. "Lena... the doctors told me what he did. The surgeries, the debts... he told them you were his fiancée."
"It started as a contract, Dad," I whispered, wiping away my tears. "To save your life."
"And now?" my father asked softly.
I looked back at Alexander. He was watching me with an expression of such pure, unadulterated tenderness that my heart swelled until it ached.
"And now," I said, "it's the only thing that's real."
My father smiled—a weak, beautiful smile I hadn't seen since my mother was alive. He reached out his hand toward Alexander.
Alexander walked over immediately, taking my father’s fragile, working-class hand into his own strong grip.
"Take care of her, son," my father whispered. "She has her mother’s wings. Don't let them clip them."
"I would die before I let anyone touch a single feather, sir," Alexander replied, his voice thick with unshakeable conviction.
Alexander turned back to me, his jaw set like iron.
May you like
"Tomorrow night, Lena," he said softly. "We finish this."
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