Chapter 14 - Face to Face with the Ghost
The encrypted video conference screen flickered to life precisely at 10:00 AM. On the high-definition display, the luxurious private office in Geneva materialized in stunning clarity.
Victor Vance sat behind a massive mahogany desk, looking remarkably youthful and relentlessly arrogant for a man who had supposedly been dead for thirty-five years. He held a crystal tumbler of scotch in his hand, swirling the amber liquid lazily as he stared directly into the camera lens.
On my end of the encrypted feed, my camera displayed my sunlit study, with me sitting upright in my motorized wheelchair, flanked by Margaret Sloan and Arthur Vance.
“Hello, Evelyn,” Victor’s smooth, resonant voice echoed through the high-end studio speakers. “You know, they said grief ages a person, but looking at you now, I see time has only sharpened your claws. Though, I must admit, the motorized chair is a rather dramatic touch.”
“Hello, Victor,” I replied, my voice calm, even, and utterly devoid of fear. “It’s remarkable what modern medicine can do—unlike resurrection, which seems to require thirty-five years of hiding in tax havens under a fake passport.”
Victor’s smooth smile tightened just a fraction around the edges, his grey eyes narrowing slightly. “Let’s skip the petty family history, Evelyn. We both know why we’re here. You’re holding onto an empire that rightfully belongs to the senior branch of the Vance family. Your husband Thomas usurped my position decades ago through corporate bullying and legal threats.”
“Thomas bought out your shares legally and fairly after federal investigators caught you embezzling two million dollars from the shipping trust to fund your gambling debts in Monaco,” I corrected him smoothly, my tone slicing through the digital audio feed like a razor blade.
“That was a long time ago, and allegations are easily fabricated by ambitious prosecutors,” Victor dismissed with a wave of his hand, taking a slow sip of his scotch. “The point is, the past is the past. Today, Meridian Holdings controls the financial lifeblood of your European hotel portfolio. You can fight the arbitration in court for the next five years, draining your reserves in legal fees, or you can sign the restructuring agreement my lawyers sent your office this morning and retire quietly to a nice estate somewhere in the countryside.”
He paused, leaning forward toward his camera lens with a triumphant, predatory smirk. “Save yourself the humiliation, Evelyn. The queen’s reign is over. Bow out gracefully.”
I didn't blink. I didn't flinch. Instead, I let out a low, musical chuckle that made Victor’s smug expression falter.
“Victor,” I said softly, leaning slightly forward into my microphone. “You spent thirty-five years hiding in the shadows, nursing your wounded ego and plotting your grand revenge. But you made one catastrophic miscalculation.”
Victor frowned, his eyebrows twitching in irritation. “What miscalculation?”
“You assumed that because I lost the use of my legs, I also lost control of my mind.”
With a subtle nod, I signaled Arthur Vance, who tapped a few keys on his laptop and transmitted a new encrypted file directly to Victor’s secure terminal in Geneva.
“Open your email, Victor,” I instructed quietly. “Consider it a family greeting card.”
May you like
Frowning deeply, Victor reached out with his free hand, picked up his tablet, and opened the newly arrived secure attachment. As his eyes scanned the first page of dense financial data, judicial seals, and international banking logs, the color drained completely from his tanned face.
The glass tumbler slipped from his fingers, shattering loudly against the mahogany desk, spilling amber scotch across his expensive suit pants.
