Chapter 3 - THE DEAD MAN’S LEGACY
The silence that followed Dr. Vance’s revelation was so heavy that even the soft rustle of the baby’s blanket sounded like a thunderclap.
Julian Roth had been dead for three years.
He had died in a burning helicopter wreckage off the rocky crags of the Isle of Skye in Scotland. His body had been recovered, identified through dental records, and buried in the family vault in Greenwich, Connecticut.
Yet, sitting on a leather sofa in San Diego, a six-pound newborn boy carried his undeniable, unalterable genetic code.
“That’s impossible,” Dennis said, his voice dropping into a quiet, lethal register. “Julian died thirty-six months ago. This baby was born thirty-six hours ago. Unless my brother rose from the grave, the math doesn't work.”
“Unless,” Dr. Vance said nervously, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, “someone accessed the frozen specimen repository at the Zurich Cryogenic Clinic.”
Dennis turned slowly, his gray eyes burning with a dark, terrifying intensity. “Zurich?”
“When Julian was diagnosed with testicular cancer at age twenty-two,” Dr. Vance explained quietly, “he deposited six viable samples at the private Swiss facility before undergoing chemotherapy. After his death, those samples were supposed to be destroyed per his explicit medical directive. But three months ago... someone presented a court-certified authorization order carrying your father’s signature and withdrew one vial.”
I gasped, gripping the baby tighter against my chest. “Astrid didn't just sleep with someone to get pregnant. She used a stolen genetic sample from a dead billionaire!”
“It was never about an affair,” Harrison realized, his eyes wide behind his glasses. “Astrid didn't want a living baby daddy who could fight her for custody! She wanted a dead heir! Under the 1974 Dynasty Trust bylaws, a child born from a deceased heir’s preserved genetic material still retains full, primary inheritance rights to Julian’s fifty-percent share of the main trust—provided the child is birthed within five years of the father’s death!”
The absolute, terrifying brilliance of my sister’s plot revealed itself in all its horror.
Astrid hadn't just executed a simple fraud. She had calculated every single legal loophole in one of the most complex corporate trusts in American history. By using Julian’s genetic material, she ensured that Dennis could not claim primary parental custody, because Dennis was only the uncle! As the biological mother of Julian’s sole surviving heir, Astrid would be named the sole legal guardian of a two-point-eight-billion-dollar estate, completely immune to Dennis’s corporate authority!
And my parents... my parents had known. Or at least, my mother had known enough to realize that if the baby was linked to my name, the entire narrative would collapse before Astrid could collect the funds in Europe!
“She didn't just plan this alone,” I said, my voice trembling with rage. “She couldn't have. Astrid was a twenty-two-year-old intern. She didn't have access to Swiss cryo-clinics or forged international court orders!”
“She had an accomplice inside Roth Capital,” Dennis said, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles along his cheek flexed violently. “Someone with high-level clearance who knew about Julian’s Zurich account and had access to my father’s legal seal.”
Before we could digest the horrifying truth, a high-pitched alarm sounded through the executive suite.
The wall monitors flashed bright red.
SECURITY BREACH: LEVEL 1 GROUND FLOOR.
Harrison ran to the main control panel, tapping the screen frantically. “Dennis! The Federal Bureau of Investigation just breached the building perimeter! They have a federal tactical unit in the lobby, accompanied by the Phoenix Police Department!”
On the live camera feeds, I saw half a dozen tactical officers dressed in dark blue body armor, carrying assault rifles, marching through the marble lobby of Roth Capital Group. Walking right behind them, wearing an expensive black coat and crying dramatically into a white handkerchief, was my mother, Beatrice.
“She brought them here,” I whimpered, the cold terror returning with double force. “My mother led them straight to me!”
“Look at the camera feed in the rear alley!” Harrison yelled, pointing to a smaller monitor.
A sleek black Mercedes van was parked near the loading dock. Out stepped a tall man wearing a tailored charcoal suit, accompanied by two heavy-set men in leather jackets.
Dennis’s eyes locked onto the man in the charcoal suit. “Charles Vance.”
I blinked. “Vance? Related to Harrison?”
“My brother,” Harrison whispered, his face completely drained of color. “He’s the senior managing partner at Vance & Sterling... the law firm that manages my father’s personal estate.”
“Your brother forged the Swiss authorization documents,” Dennis realized instantly, his tone laced with absolute certainty. “He partnered with Astrid. They engineered the entire birth, used your family’s firm to bypass the trust security, and now they’re using the FBI to sweep Elsie out of the picture so Charles can claim legal guardianship over the baby through Astrid!”
“Dennis, what do we do?!” Harrison cried. “They’re taking the elevators up! We have less than three minutes before they breach this floor!”
Dennis didn't hesitate. He turned to me, grabbed my backpack, and slung it over his shoulder. Then, he reached down and scooped up the newborn baby with his left arm, using his right hand to grab my wrist with an iron grip.
“Dennis! The helipad is compromised!” Harrison shouted. “They’ve grounded all air traffic over San Diego!”
“We aren't taking the helicopter,” Dennis growled, dragging me toward a hidden door built into the mahogany wood panelling behind his desk. “We’re taking the subterranean freight tunnel to the harbor.”
He shoved open the hidden door, revealing a dimly lit, narrow concrete staircase descending into the dark depths of the skyscraper.
“Harrison,” Dennis barked over his shoulder. “Stay here. Play the foolish corporate lawyer. Tell the FBI you have no idea where I went, and demand a full federal audit of your brother’s law firm.”
“Dennis, if they catch you fleeing with a wanted suspect, they will charge you with federal harbor of a fugitive!” Harrison warned.
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Dennis looked back, his gray eyes blazing with an unholy, terrifying fire. “Let them try.”
He pulled me into the dark staircase, slamming the heavy reinforced door shut behind us just as the sound of boots slamming against the office doors echoed from above.
