Chapter 4 - The Midnight Court
The boardroom on the eighty-fourth floor of the Sterling Tower in Manhattan smelled of aged mahogany, imported leather, and absolute power.
Floor-to-ceiling glass windows offered a panoramic view of the glittering Manhattan skyline, though down on the plaza, emergency vehicles were still dispersing the remnants of the gala crowd.
Julian Sterling sat at the head of the massive obsidian table, his knuckles white as he gripped the armrests. His ceremonial black suit had been replaced by an Italian wool blazer, but the golden flame pin remained pinned to his lapel.
Across from him sat the five senior trustees of the Sterling Foundation—elderly men and women who controlled the votes that could make or break governments.
“Explain to me how a seventeen-year-old nobody from Millbrook bypassed three layers of biometric security,” Julian demanded, his voice echoing in the cavernous room.
Arthur Vance stepped out of the private elevator, walking toward the head of the table. Behind him, two guards guided Ethan and Walter into the room. Ethan’s hands were bound with heavy plastic zip-ties, his face pale but defiant. Walter walked with a heavy limp, his eyes fixed coldly on his nephew, Julian.
Julian stood up slowly, leaning over the table. He stared at Ethan’s face, tracing the sharp line of the boy’s jaw, noting the uncanny resemblance to the framed oil portraits of the founding Sterlings hanging in the building’s lower gallery.
“So,” Julian whispered, a dark, venomous amusement creeping into his tone. “The farm boy is a cousin. A little bastard branch of the family tree we thought we pruned off twenty years ago.”
“Watch your mouth, Julian,” Walter growled.
Julian laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. “Or what, Uncle Walter? You’ll shoot me with that rusty shotgun? You gave up your rights when you fled to that pathetic farm. You traded the throne for a tractor.”
“The throne is built on stolen ground, Julian,” Ethan spoke up, his voice steady despite the zip-ties cutting into his wrists. He stepped forward, pulling against the guards until they forced him to stop. “The Crown Fire didn't burn me because the empire belongs to the bloodline—and that includes everyone your grandfather tried to erase.”
Julian’s face twisted into an ugly mask. He walked around the table until he stood inches from Ethan.
“You think a parlor trick with some thermal gas makes you a Sterling?” Julian sneered, leaning in close. “By sunrise, the board will ratify my chairmanship. Every bank, every judge, every news outlet in this country answers to me. You don't exist, Ethan. And by tomorrow morning, neither will this farm.”
Conrad Sterling stepped out from the private office behind the boardroom, leaning heavily on a carved ebony cane. His hair was stark white, his eyes sunken, but his presence commanded instant silence in the room.
“Julian,” Conrad said quietly. “Quiet.”
“Father, I am handling this— সচিব—”
“Silence!” Conrad’s voice cracked like a whip, surprising everyone. He walked slowly toward Ethan, stopping just a foot away. The old man reached out a trembling hand, his fingers hovering inches from Ethan’s collarbone where the hidden mark pulsed with a faint, warm glow.
“You have your grandfather’s eyes, boy,” Conrad murmured, his voice heavy with ancient regret. “And the fire... the fire has chosen its master.”
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Julian stepped back, his expression turning manic. “Father, don't listen to him! We sign the papers tonight. Arthur brought the forfeiture papers!”
Conrad didn't look at his son. He looked straight into Ethan’s eyes. “He can sign all he wants, Julian. But a true Sterling cannot give away what the fire claims. The succession is contested.”
