Chapter 8: Fire in the Front Courtyard

"Stay where you are, Vivienne."

Bastien fastened the final metal clip onto the elastic bandage around Vivienne's ankle without an ounce of hurry. His hands were rock-steady, as if Corinne’s hysterical shrieks filtering through the intercom were nothing more than a passing breeze.

Vivienne gripped the edge of the charcoal cashmere throw in her lap. Corinne's voice tore through the speaker again, shrill and venomous, threatening to bring down the city police if the West Wing gates weren't opened within minutes.

"Mother brought a lawyer," Vivienne whispered, her eyes glued to the closed bedroom door. "She holds legal guardianship over me until I turn twenty-one."

Bastien rose to his feet. Picking up a dry towel from the tray, he wiped the traces of water and blood from his hands before tossing the cloth onto the table.

"The laws of this city bow to whoever controls the ports and the banks," Bastien replied flatly, buttoning the cuffs of his damp black shirt. "And that woman controls nothing but a mountain of casino debt."

Bastien turned toward the door. Before his fingers touched the handle, he paused and glanced back at Vivienne, still sitting rigid on the leather sofa.

"Don't touch the window. Don't leave this room."

The door swung shut, the automated deadbolt engaging from the outside with a heavy thud.

Vivienne exhaled a long breath. Ignoring the sharp throb in her ankle, she dragged herself across the floor toward the floor-to-ceiling glass looking out over the front courtyard of the West Wing. The torrential downpour had tapered to a thin, drifting mist, leaving a veil of condensation clinging to the glass.

Down below, blinding floodlights illuminated the towering black wrought-iron gates marking the perimeter.

Corinne stood beside a sleek luxury sedan, wrapped in a fox-fur coat with rain-drenched shoulders. Flanking her was a man in a gray suit clutching a leather briefcase—the family attorney—fidgeting with his glasses as he gripped a stack of white legal folders. Four private bodyguards held massive black umbrellas over their heads.

"Open the gate!" Corinne shrieked again, slamming her crocodile-leather handbag against the iron bars. "I have a court order! Vivienne is my flesh and blood! You have no right to hold her, Bastien!"

The heavy double doors on the ground floor pushed open.

Bastien stepped out onto the marble terrace. He carried no umbrella, letting the cold drizzle plaster his dark hair to his brow. Beside him, Silas Drake marched with rigid, disciplined strides, flanked by six West Wing operatives clad in pitch-black tactical gear.

Bastien’s sheer presence cut Corinne's screams short. The woman instinctively took half a step back before forcing her chin up.

"Finally decided to crawl out, you bastard?" Corinne hissed as Bastien stopped five paces shy of the iron barrier separating them. "Hand Vivienne over right now. Mr. Caldwell is already waiting at his estate. If you refuse, he’ll revoke every single docking permit the Vance clan holds across the southern harbors!"

The attorney stepped forward, his hands trembling as he shoved a red-sealed document through the bars.

"Mr. Vance," the attorney squeaked, his voice cracking with nerves. "Under civil code, Madame Corinne is the sole lawful guardian of Miss Vivienne. Her physical detention constitutes first-degree kidnapping. We are granting you ten minutes to—"

Bastien didn't even glance at the paper. His gaze remained pinned to Corinne, dead-eyed and entirely devoid of heat.

Raising his right hand, Bastien curled two fingers toward Silas.

A silent execution order.

Silas unclipped the radio from his tactical belt and pressed the push-to-talk button once. "Bring it all to the courtyard."

The heavy roar of diesel engines shattered the quiet of the night. Two closed box trucks emblazoned with the Vance crest reversed into the courtyard, followed closely by the high-pitched rumble of Corinne’s hot-pink Porsche, driven by one of Silas’s men.

Corinne’s brow furrowed as she watched her prized car get parked haphazardly in the middle of the rain-slicked asphalt. "What is this? What the hell are you doing with my car?!"

The roll-up rear doors of both trucks flew open in unison.

Enforcers in black uniforms began unloading cargo in rapid succession. Eight designer leather trunks bearing Parisian luxury labels, dozens of velvet jewelry cases, rolling garment racks loaded with bespoke silk dresses, mink coats, and shelves of crystal-encrusted stilettos were hauled out and piled high over the hood and roof of the Porsche.

It was every scrap of luxury Corinne had hoarded over years of marriage to Raymond Vance.

The color drained from Corinne's face. "Stop! Get your filthy hands off my things! Bastien! What did you tell them to do?!"

Two Vance operatives stepped forward carrying twenty-liter metal jerrycans. Without hesitation, they popped the seals and tipped the thick, pungent fuel across the mountain of silk gowns, designer luggage, and straight through the open windows of the luxury cabin.

The suffocating reek of raw gasoline bloomed in the damp air, overpowering the scent of rain.

"Bastien! Have you lost your mind?!" Corinne shrieked, seizing the iron bars of the gate and rattling them with all her might. "Those are limited-edition couture pieces! The sapphire necklace in that box is worth billions! Stop them!"

Her attorney swallowed hard, taking three hurried steps back from the vapor-choked air.

Silas stepped up to Bastien, pressing a sterling silver lighter engraved with a soaring eagle into his master’s palm.

Bastien flicked the flint wheel with his thumb.

Flick.

A bright yellow flame flared between his fingers, casting sharp, dancing shadows across the carved angles of his face.

Bastien strolled casually toward the mountain of opulence, the soles of his dress shoes clicking against the wet pavement.

"You sold your daughter for fifty billion to cover your casino tab," Bastien said, his voice quiet yet carrying with terrifying clarity through the mist. "These luxuries were bought with my father’s money. And in this house, no garbage is permitted to remain."

Bastien tossed the burning lighter squarely onto the gas-drenched hood.

FWOOOM!

A monstrous pillar of fire erupted into the night sky.

A wave of blistering heat slammed across the front courtyard, instantly obliterating the freezing fog. Crimson flames devoured the leather trunks, charred the couture silk to ash, and warped the sports car's reinforced windshield until the superheated tires blew out in rapid, concussive pops.

Thick black smoke billowed upward into the dark, blanketing the West Wing in the acrid stench of incinerated fabric and melting metal.

From behind the second-floor window, Vivienne watched the spectacle with her breath trapped in her throat. Seeing the inferno reflected in the glass, she understood just how ruthlessly Bastien dismantled a person’s pride and identity. He hadn't merely turned Corinne away; he had obliterated the exact social currency that kept her mother alive.

Down below, Corinne’s knees gave out. The socialite collapsed onto the sodden mud outside the gates, watching the sea of fire consume every shred of her wealth and vanity.

"My things... My diamonds..." Corinne wailed, tears streaking through her caked makeup as her voice deteriorated into a wretched, broken shriek. "You're the devil, Bastien! You're a monster!"

Bastien walked back toward the iron gates.

He came to a stop directly in front of the sobbing woman sprawled in the dirt, the roaring inferno at his back casting his frame in silhouette.

Looking down through the iron bars, his slate-gray eyes were hollow, empty of even a single drop of mercy.

"Starting tonight, your name is wiped from the family registry. Leave before I throw you into the fire next."