Chapter 5 - The Glass Fortress
The Northwestern Private Pavilion was a world away from the moldy walls of apartment 5B.
The private suite on the eighteenth floor boasted hardwood floors, floor-to-ceiling soundproof windows overlooking the snow-covered park, and two large adjoining bedrooms.
Inside the master bedroom, the air was warm and smelled of fresh lilies. Clare lay in a soft, motor-adjusted bed dressed in silk pajamas, an IV drip running warm fluid into her arm, a oxygen tube resting comfortably under her nose. Her face was no longer pale; the warmth of the room and the intensive medical care had brought a soft, healthy color back to her cheeks.
In the adjoining room, Sadie and Nora were fast asleep in a massive king-sized bed, buried under mountains of goose-down comforters, their arms wrapped around two massive plush teddy bears that Hank had delivered earlier that morning.
Julian stepped into Clare’s room softly, shutting the heavy mahogany door behind him.
Clare turned her head, her eyes bright as she saw her brother. "Julian..."
Julian walked over, pulling a leather chair close to her bedside, and took her hand. "How are you feeling, little sis?"
"Like I died and went to a hotel," Clare whispered, a faint laugh escaping her lips, though her eyes softened into something deeper. "The girls... they ate three plates of pancakes this morning. Sadie asked if the doctor was a king because he had a gold watch."
Julian smiled, rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb. "They can have whatever they want, Clare. Anything."
Clare’s smile faded slightly. She looked at her brother’s face, noticing the sharp dark circles beneath his eyes and the severe, dangerous energy that seemed to vibrate off his shoulders.
"Julian... what happened last night?" Clare asked softly. "When you saw that painting... you looked like you saw a ghost."
Julian hesitated. He didn't want to burden her fragile body with the horror of what he had uncovered in the dark hours of the morning.
"I found Dad's letter," Julian said quietly.
Clare went rigid. Her fingers tightened on his. "Dad's... letter?"
"The frame," Julian explained, his voice low and solemn. "It was custom-made by Dad before the house fire. He hid the original land titles and the true ownership documents of the family trust inside the backing wood. Sterling didn't give you that painting out of kindness six years ago, Clare. He gave it to you because he thought it was just a worthless sentimental relic, unaware that he was handing you the key to the entire family estate."
Clare pulled her breath in sharply. "Uncle Jonathan... he was behind it?"
"Jonathan and Sterling," Julian confirmed, his gray eyes flashing with cold fire. "They made sure you disappeared into the state foster system under your mother's maiden name, 'Miller,' so no one would ever connect you to the Vance family trust. They wanted you poor, broken, and silent."
Tears spilled over Clare’s eyelashes, but they were no longer tears of weakness—they were tears of long-buried rage. "I lived in six different group homes, Julian. I washed dishes at night while taking care of the twins. I begged the county for housing assistance, and they threw my applications away. They made me feel like I was nothing."
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Julian leaned forward, resting his forehead against her trembling knuckles.
"They are going to pay for every single cold night you suffered, Clare," Julian swore, his voice vibrating with lethal intensity. "Every missed meal. Every tear those little girls shed. I promise you on Mom and Dad's grave."
