Chapter 5: The Interrogation

The transition from the blinding chaos of the Grand Regent Ballroom to the interior of Arthur Vance’s limousine felt less like a departure and more like being plunged into a decompression chamber.

When the heavy door clicked into place, the frantic shouting of the press, the popping of flashbulbs, and the low, collective roar of high society were instantly cut off.

The silence that followed was absolute, heavy, and suffocating. It was the kind of quiet that exists only inside a vault or a tomb.

Evelyn leaned her head back against the hand-stitched black leather seat, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. The adrenaline that carried her up the stage stairs, the intoxicating rush of watching Julian choke on his own arrogance, was beginning to fade.

In its place, a cold, hollow exhaustion crept into her bones. She turned her head slightly, her eyes tracking the man sitting across from her.

Arthur Vance had already fallen back into his default state of terrifying composure. He poured himself another finger of scotch from the hidden crystal decanter in the side panel. He hadn't taken off his coat, and his broad shoulders seemed to fill the entire limousine’s custom cabin.

He wasn't looking at her. Instead, his piercing gray eyes were fixed on the tinted glass window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of silver and neon as the vehicle sped away from the hotel.

He looked completely unbothered by the fact that he had just hijacked his son’s engagement gala, upended the stock market, and married a woman half his age on a whim.

I am married to him, Evelyn thought, her mind struggling to grasp the sheer weight of her gambit. I am no longer Evelyn King, the tragic pawn. I am Evelyn Vance.

Arthur didn't speak until the limousine had cleared the downtown traffic and merged onto the dark, winding highway heading toward the northern cliffs. When he finally shifted his gaze to her, the weight of his scrutiny made the air in the cabin feel ten degrees colder.

“The adrenaline is wearing off,” Arthur observed, his deep voice cutting through the silence. He didn't sound sympathetic–he sounded clinical, like a doctor noting a patient's symptoms under observation.

“Your hands are shaking, Evelyn.”

Evelyn immediately looked down at her lap. Her fingers, resting against her gown, trembled. She clenched them into tight fists, forcing them to stay still. She raised her chin, meeting his eyes with a defiance she had to summon through sheer will.

“A natural reaction to watching a dynasty crack,” she replied, her voice steady despite the tremor in her limbs.

“I assure you, my resolve isn't shaking.”

Arthur took a slow, deliberate sip of his scotch, his gaze never leaving her face. He tapped a single finger against the crystal glass.

“You performed beautifully on that stage,” he murmured.

“You have the court manners of a queen and the instinct of an assassin. But the performance is over. We are behind closed doors, Mrs. Vance. And it is time for you to tell me the truth.”

Evelyn’s pulse spiked. “I told you the truth in the lounge, Arthur.”

“You told me facts,” Arthur corrected sharply, leaning forward.

“You told me numbers, names, and transactions that only three people in the world should know. So I will ask you one more time, and I advise you to think very carefully before you open your mouth.”

He paused, eyes narrowing into two slits of cold steel.

“How does a twenty-four-year-old girl, who has spent her entire life sheltered by her family's wealth, obtain the precise financial blueprints to my family's ruin?”

Evelyn felt a bead of sweat trace down her neck.

She couldn't tell him the truth. If she revealed that she had already lived this life, spent seven years as Julian’s overlooked, poisoned wife, and found those documents in a hidden wall safe three days before her own murder in 2026, he would have her committed to a psychiatric ward before sunrise.

She needed to give him a lie wrapped in an unassailable truth.

“My father’s shipping business hasn't been doing well for the past two years,” Evelyn said, carefully weaving her story, drawing on the real financial struggles her family had quietly endured during this period.

“Julian approached my father six months ago, offering a private bailout funded by a 'subsidiary' of the Vance Group. My father was too proud to analyze the paperwork, but I wasn't.”

Arthur’s posture remained completely stiff. He listened, analyzing every micro-expression on her face.

“I hired an independent forensic auditor from London,” Evelyn lied smoothly, her voice growing more confident as she spoke.

“I asked him to trace Julian’s private liquidity. He couldn't find it through standard Vance Group channels. But he did uncover a recurring ledger entry in our family’s secondary trust—an entry linked directly to an offshore entity called C.H. Legacy. I realized Julian wasn't using your money to bail my father out. He was funneling funds through Chloe Henderson’s family. I looked deeper. It became clear the Hendersons didn't have that kind of capital unless they were blackmailing someone. The timeline of their wealth surge perfectly matched your wife Eleanor’s death.”

She took a deep breath, gazing directly at Arthur.

“I pieced everything together myself. Julian isn't your blood, Arthur. He found out, used Chloe’s father to secure proof, and forced Eleanor to fund his private empire before she died. They planned to use my family’s voting alliance to drain you from the inside. I decided to cut the parasite off before it could feed.”

The silence between them grew heavy and thick with tension. Arthur remained still, sitting there like a silent judge, weighing her words against everything he knew.

Slowly, he reached out, his large hand moving toward her. Evelyn held back the urge to flinch as his long fingers gently traced the sharp line of her collarbone, stopping just below her throat where her pulse was pounding frantically.

“An elegant story,” Arthur whispered, his thumb pressing lightly against her carotid artery, feeling the rapid, terrified beat of her heart.

“Plausible. Well-researched. But you’re still hiding something from me, little bird. Your eyes, they aren't the eyes of a girl who just uncovered a corporate fraud scheme last week.”

His grip tightened slightly, just enough to command her full attention.

“They are the eyes of someone who has looked at a corpse. Someone carrying a grudge from beyond the grave. If I find out you’re a plant or that you lied to protect your father’s failing assets, I will not simply divorce you, Evelyn.”

He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear.

“I will dismantle the King family piece by piece.”

“I will buy your father’s shipping lanes, sink his fleet, and make sure your family name becomes a warning story whispered in bankruptcy court. Do you understand me?”

Evelyn didn't let her gaze drop. She ignored the terror twisting in her stomach, focusing instead on the memory of the smoking Aston Martin, the scent of Chloe’s perfume, and Julian’s mocking laughter. That memory was her shield. It made her bulletproof.

“I understand completely, Mr. Vance,” she whispered, her voice sharp with fierce clarity.

“But you have nothing to fear from me. Our interests are perfectly aligned.”

“You want to protect your legacy, I want to see Julian burn. Check the Cayman accounts yourself. Look at the files I gave you. You’ll see I’m the best investment you’ve ever made.”

Arthur looked at her for a long moment, searching for a crack in her armor. Finding none, he slowly released her throat, leaning back into his seat with a low grunt.

“We shall see,” he said, finishing the rest of his scotch.