Chapter 7 - The Last TrusteeFor several seconds, nobody moved.
“Murdered?”
Julian nodded.
“My grandfather’s previous trustee.”
Khloe immediately stepped between us.
“Stop.”
Julian raised his hands.
“I didn't kill him.”
“But you know who did.”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Julian looked at the files.
“My father.”
The words felt unreal.
The Vance family had always presented itself as disciplined.
Traditional.
Untouchable.
But underneath the polished marble and charity galas was rot.
Julian continued.
“The trustee discovered that my grandfather had diverted voting control away from the family.”
“To whom?”
Julian looked at me.
“To the beneficiary who legally came first.”
My heart stopped.
“Who?”
He didn't answer.
Instead, he opened a file.
Inside was a birth record.
My name appeared at the top.
My daughter's name below mine.
Then another name.
My father.
I stared.
“What does this mean?”
Julian said softly:
“You weren't just chosen as trustee.”
I looked at him.
“You were the protected bloodline.”
I shook my head.
“That makes no sense.”
“My grandfather discovered that your father was his legal partner in the original trust structure.”
Khloe frowned.
“Business partner?”
“No.”
Julian shook his head.
“Family.”
I stared at him.
“You're lying.”
“I wish I were.”
He explained that decades earlier, my father had married into the Vance family before me.
Not socially.
Legally.
My grandmother had been Julian's grandfather's half-sister.
Our families were connected through a forgotten branch of the family tree.
I almost laughed.
“Then why was I never told?”
“Because your father wanted you outside the family politics.”
“And you?”
Julian looked away.
“I didn't know until two years after our wedding.”
“So what changed?”
“Ethan found the documents.”
I knew the answer before he said it.
“They decided to remove me.”
Julian nodded.
I stared at him.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
He didn't answer.
“HOW LONG?”
“Three years.”
The slap came before I could think.
My palm hit his face.
He didn't move.
“You stood beside me for three years.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“By sleeping with Mia?”
His silence answered.
“You didn't protect me.”
I felt tears burning my eyes.
“You used me.”
Julian looked broken for the first time.
“I thought I could control the situation.”
“And now?”
His eyes moved toward Elena's room.
“Now they want you dead.”
Khloe went still.
“Who?”
Julian whispered:
“Ethan isn't the mastermind.”
“Then who is?”
Julian looked at me.
“My mother.”
The name landed like a bomb.
Vivienne Vance.
The elegant matriarch who had welcomed me into the family.
The woman who had called me daughter.
The woman who had held Elena's ultrasound photograph and cried with happiness.
I remembered her smiling.
Then I remembered something else.
At our wedding, she had kissed my cheek and whispered:
“Welcome to the family.”
I had thought it was love.
Maybe it was a warning.
Julian continued.
“She controlled the old trust structure.”
Khloe's eyes narrowed.
“And she funded Project Heir.”
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because she believes the Vance empire belongs to a male descendant.”
I pointed to the file.
“But the trust says otherwise.”
“She wants the trust changed.”
“It can't be.”
“Not without you.”
I stared at him.
Then a security guard rushed downstairs.
“Mrs. Vance!”
“What?”
“We lost contact with the upstairs team.”
My heart stopped.
“How long?”
“Three minutes.”
I ran.
The stairs blurred.
I reached the nursery.
The crib was empty.
Elena was gone.
A white blanket lay on the floor.
And taped to the wall was a note.
Stage Three has begun.
Underneath it:
Bring the trust documents to the old Vance chapel. Come alone.
I turned toward Julian.
He was standing behind me.
His face had gone pale.
“I know where that chapel is.”
I looked at him.
“Then take me.”
He shook his head.
“You don't understand.”
“What?”
“That chapel isn't abandoned.”
He swallowed.
“My mother uses it.”
“For what?”
Julian looked toward the empty crib.
“For meetings the family doesn't want recorded.”
Then his phone buzzed.
He checked it.
His expression collapsed.
“What?”
He showed me the screen.
A photograph.
Elena.
Alive.
Safe.
Held by someone whose face was outside the frame.
And below it was one sentence:
Bring the girl’s father.
May you like
Julian looked at me.
“They want both of us.”
