Chapter 6 - The Fall of the Montgomerys
By 8:00 AM the following morning, the grand penthouse suite of the Vance Tower in downtown Chicago was completely lockdown.
Inside the master bedroom, the heavy velvet drapes were pulled back to let in the warm morning sunlight. Clara lay on the king-sized bed, clean, wrapped in soft silk sheets, with an IV line delivering fresh fluids.
On her left side, seven-year-old Lily was fast asleep, her small hands holding Clara’s thumb even in her sleep. On her right side lay tiny Maya, her fever completely gone, sleeping peacefully against Clara’s heart.
Lucas stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching his reunited family with a quiet, profound joy that he had not felt in years.
A quiet knock sounded at the bedroom door. Arthur stepped in, leaning close to speak in a low whisper.
"Mr. Vance, Eleanor Montgomery, Victoria, and their chief legal counsel are downstairs in the main conference room. They brought three private security officers, and they are demanding to see the children's blood test results before they agree to cancel the marriage contract."
Lucas glanced back at Clara, who gave him a small, reassuring nod.
"I'll be right back, my love," Lucas whispered, kissing Clara’s cheek before stepping out into the hallway.
When Lucas walked into the glass-walled conference room on the forty-fifth floor, the atmosphere was suffocatingly tense.
Victoria stood by the window, wearing a high-end designer dress, her face red with anger and embarrassment. Her mother, Eleanor, sat at the mahogany table, clutching her crocodile-skin handbag like a shield, while two corporate lawyers sat beside her with thick manila folders.
"Lucas!" Victoria snapped the moment he walked in. "This entire circus has gone far enough! Do you have any idea what the press is writing about my family today?! They're calling my wedding a horror show! You owe my mother and me a public apology!"
Lucas didn't answer. He walked slowly to the head of the table, pulled out a leather chair, and sat down. He placed a sleek silver flash drive on the glass tabletop.
"What is that?" Eleanor demanded, her voice cracking slightly as she tried to maintain her aristocratic composure.
"That," Lucas said, his voice dropping into a register of quiet, terrifying absolute zero, "is forty gigabytes of raw data retrieved from the server bank at St. Jude’s Sanatorium four hours ago."
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Eleanor’s grip on her handbag tightened until her knuckles turned yellow.
"It includes video logs of your monthly visits to my wife's cell," Lucas continued, leaning forward. "It includes signed bank wires from your personal offshore accounts paying for her illegal detention, and audio recordings of you ordering the hospital staff to keep her drugged so she couldn't remember her own name."
