Chapter 4 - THE HOUSE ON HIGHLAND AVENUE
The rain had turned into a thick, clinging fog by the time my taxi pulled up to the heavy iron gates of the Bell estate on Highland Avenue.
The house was an imposing three-story Tudor mansion built by my grandfather in 1948. It sat on two acres of prime real estate overlooking Puget Sound, surrounded by dark pine trees and manicured boxwood hedges. To the public, it was an architectural landmark. To me, tonight, it looked like a stone fortress designed to keep secrets in and the truth out.
I stepped out of the cab, my silk dress soaked around the hem, my heels clicking sharply against the wet cobblestone driveway.
I didn't use my key. I pushed open the heavy oak front doors and walked directly into the grand foyer.
The house was silent, save for the slow, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Warm yellow light spilled out from the double doors of the library at the end of the hall.
I walked down the hallway, my chest tight, my blood burning with a quiet, terrifying rage.
I pushed open the library doors.
Julian was sitting in a high-backed leather armchair behind our father’s dark mahogany desk. He had taken off his tuxedo jacket and unbuttoned his collar. A crystal decanter of scotch sat beside a stack of thick legal documents spread across the green blotter.
He didn't look up when I walked in. He was swirling two fingers of amber liquid in a lowball glass.
"You should have listened to me at the hotel, Maren," Julian said quietly, his voice echoing in the vast, book-lined room. "You always had a habit of making emotional decisions without considering the broader financial structural implications."
"You ruined my life," I said.
My voice wasn't loud. It was flat, cold, and heavy as iron.
Julian took a slow sip of his scotch, then set the glass down with a soft clink on the mahogany surface. He finally looked up at me. His eyes were bloodshot, surrounded by dark circles, but his expression was as cool and detached as a corporate accountant reviewing an audit.
"I protected this family," Julian said.
"You lied to me!" I stepped up to the desk, slamming both of my hands flat against the mahogany surface. "You forged a text message! You stole a letter! You told me the man I loved had abandoned me, while he was in Chicago burying his friend's father!"
"Beckett Shaw was a threat to everything our father built!" Julian snapped, his composure cracking for a fraction of a second, his voice rising into a sharp bark. "Do you have any idea what state the estate was in when Dad died, Maren? Do you?"
I didn't answer. I stared at him.
"Dad was a brilliant doctor, but he was a terrible businessman!" Julian yelled, standing up from his chair. "He had placed seventy percent of our liquid capital into failed biotech startups! We were three months away from defaulting on the mortgage for this very house! The Bell name was about to become a laughingstock in this city!"
He walked around the desk, pointing a finger at my face.
"I needed the voting shares from your half of the trust to secure the credit line from the Vance Group!" Julian continued, his breathing heavy. "If you had married Beckett on June 14, his father’s lawyers would have audited your inheritance within forty-eight hours. They would have discovered the deficit. They would have foreclosed on our properties! I did what I had to do to keep us solvent!"
"You didn't do it to keep us solvent, Julian," I said, my voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper. "You did it to keep yourself powerful. You traded ten years of my life, my happiness, my heart... so you could play real estate mogul with Richard Vance."
Julian’s eyes narrowed. "I gave you a career! I funded your medical school tuition! I pulled the strings at St. Catherine’s to get you appointed as head of the new trauma center!"
"You didn't fund my tuition—my father's trust did!" I shouted, tears of rage spilling over my cheeks. "And you didn't give me my career! I earned every single hour of my residency while you sat in this office counting money that didn't belong to you!"
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the platinum ring, and slammed it onto the mahogany desk between us.
The three small diamonds caught the soft lamp light.
"It’s over, Julian," I said. "I know about the burner phone. I know about the letter you intercepted. And I know about the illegal transfer of my voting shares to the Vance Group."
Julian looked down at the ring, then back at me. A slow, cruel smile touched the corners of his lips.
"You know nothing, Maren," he murmured softly. "You have no proof. The courier who delivered that letter ten years ago was paid off and moved to Florida five years ago. The burner phone records are gone. And as of midnight, Victoria has filed an emergency injunction freezing your access to all trust records."
He leaned closer to me, his voice dropping into a dark, manipulative purr.
"Who is a court going to believe, Maren? A brilliant, respected venture capitalist who has managed the city’s top charitable foundations for a decade... or an emotionally unstable emergency physician who suffered a nervous breakdown at a public gala and assaulted a minor?"
Before I could answer, a deep, heavy voice resonated from the dark doorway behind me.
"The court won't have to choose who to believe, Julian."
Julian froze.
I turned around.
Beckett Shaw was standing in the doorway of the library.
He was no longer wearing his tuxedo. He wore a dark charcoal wool coat over a black crewneck sweater. Standing right beside him was a tall, silver-haired man in a sharp grey suit holding a thick, leather-bound briefcase.
It was Arthur Pendelton—the most feared corporate litigation attorney in the Pacific Northwest, and the former chief legal advisor to my father.
"Beckett," Julian breathed, his confidence instantly wavering. "This is private property. You are trespassing."
"I own thirty percent of the security firm that monitors this neighborhood, Julian," Beckett said calmly, walking slowly into the library, his heavy boots sounding firm against the hardwood floor. "Your gate guards didn't even ask for ID."
Arthur Pendelton stepped forward, placing his briefcase on the leather couch near the fire. He opened the silver latches with two loud, decisive clicks.
"Good evening, Julian," Arthur said, his tone as pleasant and lethal as a polished blade. "I believe you remember me. I drafted your father’s original trust agreement in 2008."
Julian backed up half a step against his desk. "Arthur... what is this?"
"This is a formal notice of audit," Arthur said, pulling a stack of heavily stamped legal documents from his briefcase. "Ten years ago, you presented a signed document to the probate court claiming Maren had voluntarily surrendered her voting rights in the Bell Estate Trust to you."
Arthur looked over his glasses at Julian.
"Unfortunately for you, Julian... my firm retained the original digital notary timestamps from that afternoon," Arthur continued smoothly. "The document you filed with the court was signed at 4:15 p.m. on June 14, 2016. At 4:15 p.m. on that day, Maren was sitting in my office in downtown Seattle signing her medical school loan applications."
The room went dead silent.
May you like
Julian’s face went from pale to a terrifying, translucent white.
"That's a forgery, Julian," Arthur whispered softly. "A federal class-A felony. It carries a mandatory minimum sentence of seven years in federal penitentiary."
