Chapter 60

POV: Isabella

The iron gates of the Vane estate didn't sound like a homecoming; they sounded like a deadbolt sliding into place.

I sat in the back of the heavy sedan, my hands folded tightly in my lap to keep them from shaking. Arthur sat beside me, his scent—a mix of expensive sandalwood and the faint, metallic tang of nervous sweat—filling the cramped space. He hadn't spoken since we left the clinic. He just stared out the tinted window, his fingers tapping a rhythmic, irritating beat against the leather armrest.

"You look pale, Isabella," Arthur said finally, his voice lacking its usual arrogant edge. "The cameras won't like the shadows under your eyes. We’ll have the stylists look at you before the feed goes live."

"The cameras?" I asked, my voice sounding brittle even to my own ears. "Is that why you pulled me out of the clinic? For a photo op?"

"For a rescue," Arthur corrected, turning to look at me. His eyes were bloodshot, the bravado of the gala replaced by a frantic, cornered energy. "The Sterling board was going to turn you into a ward of the state. Eleanor and I had to move fast to regain custodial authority. We’re family, Isabella. We protect our own."

"You protect the assets," I said. "Don't confuse the two."

The car pulled up to the front of the manor. The driveway was a sea of satellite trucks and security personnel. It looked less like a residence and more like a command center under siege. As the door opened, the cool evening air hit me, carrying the scent of damp earth and the distant, electronic hum of the city.

Arthur led me through the side entrance, bypassing the main foyer. We moved through the back hallways, past the mahogany-paneled library and the silent, marble-floored dining room. Every corner of this house held a memory of a secret, a ghost of a conversation I wasn't supposed to hear.

"In here," Arthur said, ushering me into the small study.

Eleanor was there. She was standing by a tripod-mounted camera, her back to us. A technician was adjusting a ring light, the sterile white glow reflecting off the dark wood of the walls. She turned as we entered, her expression unreadable.

"Sit," she said, gesturing to a velvet armchair positioned in front of a neutral backdrop. "The stylists are in the next room. You have ten minutes."

"I’m not doing an interview, Eleanor," I said, staying by the door. "I’ve already made my statement. The DOJ has the files. There’s nothing left to discuss."

"This isn't an interview," Eleanor said, walking toward me. She stopped just inches away, her presence a cold, suffocating weight. "This is a televised apology. You are going to explain that the 'leaked' files were the result of a coordinated cyber-attack on your private servers, and that your earlier statements were made under the influence of severe post-operative trauma."

"I'm not going to lie for you."

"You aren't lying for me, Isabella. You’re lying for the legacy. If the Vane Trust is liquidated, you don't just lose the money. You lose the medical infrastructure that is currently keeping that shunt in your chest from crashing your nervous system. You think Liam can save you? Liam doesn't even have a parking spot at Sterling anymore."

"I’d rather crash," I said.

Eleanor smiled—a thin, sharp movement of her lips. "Arthur, show her the secondary ledger."

Arthur stepped forward, handing me a single sheet of paper. It wasn't a bank statement. It was a medical log from 2018. My eyes scanned the lines of data, the technical jargon blurring until I saw the signature at the bottom.

It wasn't Eleanor’s. It wasn't Arthur’s. It was Liam’s.

"He authorized the interface, Isabella," Eleanor whispered. "Four years ago. He knew exactly what was being done to you. He wasn't the bystander he pretends to be. He was the architect. He used your recovery as a pilot program for the Sterling neural-link."

"No," I said, though the memory of the "L.S." initials in the audit flashed in my mind like a strobe light. "He was in London."

"He was on the board," Arthur interrupted, his voice gaining a sudden, malicious strength. "He signed the remote authorizations. Why do you think he’s been so desperate to 'protect' you? It’s not love, sister. It’s a cover-up. He needs you stable so you don't become a star witness against his own family legacy."

The room felt like it was spinning. The air was too thin, too hot. I looked at the paper, then at the camera, then at the two people who had spent my entire life treating me like a project.

"The feed goes live in five minutes," Eleanor said. "Arthur is going to lead. He’s going to take the blame for the 'miscommunication' regarding the shell companies. He’s going to play the role of the repentant son. And you are going to confirm that the Vane family is united."

"And if I don't?"

"Then Arthur goes to prison," Eleanor said simply. "And I let the regulators seize the estate. Every lab, every patent, every dose of the enzymes you need to stay alive. I’ll burn it all down, Isabella. I’ve lived long enough to know when to flip the table."

I looked at Arthur. He looked terrified. He wasn't a mastermind; he was a pawn who had finally realized he was being sacrificed.

"Please, Isabella," Arthur whispered. "I'll do the heavy lifting. I'll take the hit. Just... just don't let them take everything."

The technician signaled. "Thirty seconds to live, Ms. Vane."

I sat in the chair. The stylists rushed in, dabbing powder on my forehead and smoothing my hair with frantic, silent movements. I felt like a doll being prepped for a display case. Eleanor stepped behind the camera, her arms crossed, her eyes fixed on me like a hawk.

"Five... four... three..."

The red light on the camera flickered to life.

Arthur stepped into the frame, sitting on the edge of the desk. He looked directly into the lens, his face twisted into a mask of solemn, practiced regret.

"Good evening," Arthur said, his voice steady but carrying a rehearsed tremor. "I am Arthur Vane. I am speaking to you tonight from my family’s home because the truth deserves a face, not just a leaked document. The recent allegations regarding Vane Holdings and the Sterling merger are deeply troubling. And as the Chief Operating Officer, the responsibility for those administrative errors lies with me."

I watched him. He was good. He was selling his own soul to save his skin, painting a picture of "clerical oversights" and "misunderstood trust structures." He was making the fraud sound like a tragedy of good intentions.

"But more importantly," Arthur continued, turning to me, "I want to address the health of my sister, Isabella. There has been much speculation about her safety and her role in these disclosures. Isabella, tell them."

The camera panned to me. The white light was blinding. I could see the silhouette of Eleanor in the darkness beyond the lens, her hand resting on the back of the technician’s chair.

"Isabella?" Arthur prompted, his eyes pleading.

I looked into the lens. I thought about Liam’s signature on the 2018 log. I thought about the silent halls of the clinic. I thought about the girl on the bridge who had wanted to disappear.

"My brother is right about one thing," I said, my voice echoing in the quiet study. "The responsibility for the Vane legacy is a heavy one. But the errors weren't administrative. They were intentional."

Arthur’s smile faltered. I could hear Eleanor’s breath hitch in the silence.

"I have spent the last forty-eight hours reviewing the forensic audit of my father’s estate," I continued, my voice gaining a hard, clinical edge. "And while Arthur has offered his apology, it is not his to give. The Vane family is not united. We are a house built on secrets, and tonight, I am stepping out of the shadow."

"Isabella, stop," Arthur hissed under his breath, but the red light stayed on.

"I am officially petitioning for the total dissolution of the Vane-Sterling merger," I said, looking directly at the camera, past the viewers, straight to wherever Liam was watching. "And I am calling for a full investigation into the Sterling board’s involvement in the 2018 authorizations. The truth doesn't need an apology. It needs an accounting."

I stood up, knocking the lapel mic from my blazer. It hit the floor with a sharp, electronic thud.

The technician cut the feed, but it was too late. The fracture was no longer private; it was a jagged, televised tear in the fabric of the empire.

Arthur slumped back against the desk, his head in his hands. "You killed us," he whispered. "You just signed my warrant."

Eleanor stepped into the light. She didn't scream. She didn't move. She just looked at me with a cold, terrifying clarity.

"You think you’ve won, Isabella?" Eleanor asked. "You think the truth is a shield? You just told the world that your husband is a criminal. You just handed the DOJ the rope they need to hang Liam Sterling."

"I told the truth," I said.

"The truth is a luxury you can't afford," Eleanor said, picking up her phone. "Arthur, get out. I need to call the Sterling board. We need to discuss the immediate resignation of the CEO."

The major cliffhanger hit as I walked toward the door. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It wasn't a news alert. It was a private message from an unknown number.

Check the garage, Isabella. Liam isn't at the tower. He’s at the gate.

I looked at Eleanor, then at the window. The sound of a siren began to wail in the distance, growing louder, cutting through the quiet of the estate. But it wasn't a police siren. It was the emergency alarm of the estate’s own security system.

The gates had been breached.