Chapter 4
Verity’s hand shook so violently that the phone slipped from her fingertips before she could hand it over. It tumbled toward the rug, but Leopold’s left hand caught it effortlessly out of the air.
He did not look at the screen immediately. He held the gold device loosely in his palm, feeling the warmth of Verity’s nervous perspiration on the glass.
“Unlock it,” Leopold said.
“Leo, please,” Verity wheezed, her voice cracking into shrill, desperate fragments. She pulled her knees together, shrinking back against the tufted velvet. “It’s private. It has client messages. Trust correspondence. You have no legal right to touch my personal device!”
Leopold reached down with his right hand, seized Verity’s index finger in an unbreakable grip, and pressed her fingerprint firmly against the biometric sensor on the glass.
The screen flashed bright white, unlocking to the home screen.
Leopold released her hand. Verity cradled her fingers against her chest, whimpering softly.
Leopold swiped his thumb across the glass. The device was still open to an encrypted messaging application titled The Ashbury Trust Oversight Committee.
A video file sat at the center of the thread, uploaded at 4:18 PM on Tuesday.
The thumbnail showed Cleo in the nursery of Verity’s lakeside manor, sitting on a bare hardwood floor beside an empty porcelain bowl, her face red from weeping, her little hands clutching the same brown bear.
Beneath the video, a series of text messages rolled downward:
Vance: “Remarkable consistency. How long has she been without solid food in that clip?”
Verity: “Eighteen hours. Just watered milk. She’s completely pliable now. The tantrum footage will support the developmental instability claim perfectly.”
Dr. Calloway: “The behavioral report is ready for the judge. With this audio file and the pediatric weigh-in records, we can certify severe parental neglect within forty-eight hours of filing.”
Vance: “Excellent. Once Leopold is served with the emergency custody suspension, the voting shares revert to Verity as temporary conservator. The port terminal leases to Chicago will be signed before he can even retain counsel.”
Leopold stared at the screen for ten full seconds.
The silence around him was absolute. Even the soft hiss of the glass conservatory’s climate control seemed to fade into nothingness. The sunlight beat down through the dome, brilliant and sterile, reflecting off the diamond signet ring on his finger.
Beside the dessert table, Garrick Vance slowly began to edge his foot backward toward the double-arched exit that led out to the limousine turnaround.
“Damon,” Leopold said. He did not look up from the phone.
“Sir,” Damon replied.
“Seal the brass doors. Turn the deadbolts. If the valets try to open them from the exterior, break their forearms through the grates.”
“Understood, Mr. Ashbury.”
Damon moved with terrifying efficiency. He didn't run; he strode with heavy, measured steps to the massive, ten-foot-tall brass-and-glass entryway. With two crisp, metallic clacks, the heavy interior bolts slid into their housings.
The socialites inside the foyer let out a collective, muffled gasp. Several women drew their wraps tighter around their shoulders, realizing with sickening clarity that the doors were locked from the inside, and they were trapped in an iron-and-glass cage with Leopold Ashbury.
Leopold finally lifted his eyes from the phone.
May you like
He didn't look at his sister weeping on the bench. He turned his head slowly, his cold gaze moving past the city council members, past the terrified bankers, until it settled squarely on Garrick Vance.
“Garrick,” Leopold called out, his voice quiet, almost pleasant. “Come here.”
