Chapter 25 - The Sins of the Father
The rain smashed against the glasshouse with deafening fury, the wind howling around the steel buttresses.
Arthur stood frozen between the two women, his rifle heavy in his hands.
"That's a lie," Arthur said, though his voice sounded thin, even to himself.
"Is it?" Clara reached into her trench coat and tossed a water-damaged leather binder onto the flagstones.
The book fell open at Arthur’s feet, exposing yellowed certificates stamped with the official seal of the Commonwealth.
A marriage license. Dated seven years before Arthur was born.
The names inscribed were clear: *Thomas Hawthorne* and *Elena Vance*.
"Elena..." Arthur whispered, his mind racing through the fragments of the past weeks. "Vance?"
"My half-brother," Clara said, gesturing toward the shadows outside. "The detective who broke into your life."
"Thomas abandoned them," Eleanor said coldly, her aristocratic posture unyielding. "He was a weak, sentimental fool."
"You poisoned him," Clara hissed, her gun barrel pressing against Eleanor’s temple.
Eleanor didn't flinch.
She looked at Clara with absolute disdain, the pride of generations hardening her wrinkled features.
"He was going to split the trust," Eleanor said plainly. "He was going to divide two centuries of wealth between street rats."
"So you paid the clinic to forge the stillbirth documents," Clara whispered, her knuckles whitening on the grip.
"I preserved the bloodline!" Eleanor snapped, her voice finally breaking its icy veneer. "I preserved Arthur!"
"You didn't preserve me," Arthur said, the realization washing over him like acid. "You created a cage."
Eleanor turned to look at him, her eyes wide with cold indignation.
"Everything I did, Arthur, was so you could stand at the pinnacle of this city!"
"You hired a girl to die at my feet!" Arthur yelled, his voice echoing through the glass dome.
"Sarah was expendable!" Eleanor snarled. "She had no name! No future!"
"She was my sister," a voice called out from the dark foliage behind the weeping fig.
Detective Vance stepped into the amber light, his trench coat soaked through, an automatic submachine gun held low.
He looked battered, his shoulder crudely patched, but his eyes were burning with cold resolve.
"The trifecta," Clara murmured, not taking her gun from Eleanor’s head. "The whole happy family gathered at last."
"Arthur, shoot them!" Eleanor ordered, her voice shrill. "They're here to erase the family name!"
Vance raised his weapon, pointing it directly at Arthur’s chest.
"Put the rifle down, Arthur," Vance said quietly. "You don't belong in this grave. Step away."
"You played me from the second you took my statement at the cathedral," Arthur said, holding Vance’s gaze.
"I did what was necessary to bring this witch to the altar," Vance replied, nodding toward Eleanor.
"And what happens to the money?" Arthur challenged. "The fifty billion offshore?"
Vance glanced sideways at Clara.
A flicker of hesitation passed through his eyes—a tiny, fatal fracture in their alliance.
"The money is already moving," Clara said, her voice dropping an octave.
Vance’s head jerked toward her. "What do you mean, already moving?"
May you like
Arthur saw it before Vance did: Clara’s thumb shifting subtly on the weapon’s cylinder.
"You were always too predictable, brother," Clara whispered.
