Chapter 16 - The Blood Debt of the Dynasty
"Stand up, Eleanor," Julian ordered, his voice echoing off the concrete walls like a whip crack. "Keep your hands flat on the glass. Now."
Eleanor didn't move. She merely smiled—that same patronizing, razor-sharp smile she had worn at St. Jude’s Church moments before her hands slammed into my back.
"You really think you're in control here, little brother?" Eleanor mocked softly, taking another slow sip of her amber drink. "Look at you. Still playing the loyal knight to a woman whose life you destroyed the moment you put that diamond ring on her finger."
"Don't listen to her, Clara," Julian warned, but I heard the microscopic tremor in his voice.
I stepped out from behind Julian’s shoulder, staring at the monster who had shattered my collarbone and nearly paralyzed me for life. "How did you get out of the state hospital, Eleanor? Who paid off the guards?"
"No one paid off the guards, darling," Eleanor laughed, a cold, melodious sound that sent shivers straight to my marrow. "The state hospital *belongs* to the Vance Foundation. Did you honestly think three corrupt county judges could cage an empire? You architects understand foundations of stone, Clara. But you know nothing of the foundations of blood."
Eleanor pressed an icon on the black glass table.
Across the back wall of the bunker, a massive grid of surveillance monitors flashed to life. My breath hitched in horror.
The screens displayed dozens of high-definition, live camera feeds. One was aimed at my architectural office in downtown Boston. Another was pointed at my younger sister’s dorm room at NYU. A third was tracking the entrance of the Maine chapel where Julian and I had stood at the altar just forty-eight hours ago.
"Christian didn't just build this bunker to hide his tax shelters," Eleanor said, her eyes glittering with madness. "He built it to monitor his investments. And you, Julian... you were his most expensive investment."
"Shut your mouth, Eleanor," Julian snarled, his finger tightening dangerously against the trigger of his gun.
"Tell her the truth, Julian!" Eleanor shrieked suddenly, her composure cracking like cheap porcelain. "Tell your sweet, naive little bride why you were at the base of the church steps that day! Tell her why you were ready to catch her!"
I looked at Julian. The color had drained completely from his face. His broad shoulders, usually so unyielding, seemed to buckle under an invisible weight.
"Julian...?" I whispered. "What is she talking about?"
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"He didn't save you out of instinct, Clara," Eleanor whispered, leaning forward, her gaze drilling into mine. "Julian was the one who drew you to the church steps. He was ordered to make sure you fell. But his cowardice got the better of him—he couldn't watch you break, so he played the hero instead."
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