Chapter 2 - The Price of a DaughterThe private foyer doors hissed open with a pneumatic sigh, and Marcus Sterling strode into the penthouse as if he owned the building.
He had always possessed that disgusting, unwarranted confidence—the swagger of a man who believed his charm could talk its way out of an active volcano. But the moment he stepped onto the imported Italian marble and caught sight of the sheer scale of the penthouse—the glass art installations, the sweeping panoramic views of Central Park, and the heavy presence of two black-suited security guards flanking the doorway—his swagger visibly faltered.
Then he saw me.
I was sitting on the sofa, clutching my sleeping babies tighter against my chest, my eyes burning with a hatred so pure it felt physical.
Marcus’s eyes flicked over me, taking in the clean silk loungewear Elias’s staff had provided, the warmth radiating from the room, and the terrifying presence of Elias Vance standing beside me like a dark guardian angel.
For a second, Marcus looked confused. Then, his greasiest, most ingratiating smile spread across his face.
“Ava, my darling,” Marcus cooed, spreading his arms wide as if we were staging a loving reunion after a long workday. “Thank God. When you ran off into the night with the girls, I was beside myself with worry! I’ve been searching everywhere for you.”
The sheer, unadulterated gall of his lie made my stomach heave.
“Ran off?” I choked out, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. “You dragged me by my hair across the apartment floor. You threw me out into a freezing winter blizzard with newborn infants because they weren't boys!”
Marcus flinched slightly, shooting a nervous sideways glance at Elias, who stood silently beside the sofa, watching Marcus like a hawk watching a dying mouse.
“Now, darling, let’s not air our private domestic disputes in front of guests,” Marcus chuckled nervously, his voice sliding up an octave. He took a step forward, trying to close the distance between us. “Mr. Vance, I apologize for my wife. Postpartum hormones can make women... well, you know how unpredictable they get. She gets confused, imaginative...”
“Stop right there,” Elias said.
The three simple words didn't carry a shout, but they carried the weight of a falling anvil. Marcus froze mid-step, his foot hovering an inch above the marble floor.
Elias slowly stepped out from behind the sofa, towering a full head taller than Marcus. His posture was completely relaxed, yet every muscle in his frame radiated coiled, deadly precision.
“You called them a curse,” Elias said quietly, his voice dangerously soft.
Marcus swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly. “I... I beg your pardon?”
“When my security team reviewed the audio logs from your apartment building’s smart-hub security system—which we lawfully acquired five minutes ago via court order—we heard your exact words,” Elias continued, closing the distance between them step by methodical step. “‘A curse.’ That’s what you called two human beings who had been on this earth for less than twelve hours. Then you ordered your landlord’s groundskeeper to help you drag a hemorrhaging woman into the freezing snow.”
Marcus’s face drained of color. The oily smile vanished completely, replaced by a twitching panic.
“That’s... that’s out of context!” Marcus stammered, holding up his hands defensively. “Marital disputes are protected under privacy laws! You have no right to—this is my wife! She’s legally bound to me! And those children bear my name!”
“Your name?” Elias stopped right in front of Marcus, looking down at him with an expression of profound, crushing disgust. “You forfeited any claim to a name, a family, or human dignity the moment you laid hands on an innocent woman and her children. You aren't here as a husband, Marcus. You’re here because you think you can monetize your abandonment.”
Marcus’s eyes darted wildly around the room. Seeing that the emotional appeal had failed, he dropped the mask entirely. His expression twisted into something ugly, desperate, and venomous.
“Fine!” Marcus snarled, pulling a folded legal document from his designer coat pocket and waving it like a flag. “Call it whatever you want! But under New York State family law, she is still my legal wife, abandonment or not! And those children are my legal dependents! If you think you can harbor them here and play happy families with a billionaire’s fortune, you’re out of your mind!”
Marcus jabbed a trembling finger at Elias’s chest.
“I will sue you for alienation of affection! I will drag your name through every tabloid in the country! Unless...” Marcus grinned, his eyes gleaming with greedy malice. “Unless we reach a settlement. Say... five million dollars, transferred into my offshore account by midnight. And then, maybe, I’ll sign the divorce papers and let you keep your little pet.”
The silence in the penthouse was absolute.
I stopped breathing. Five million dollars. To Marcus, that was an impossible fortune—enough to wipe out his failing real estate debts and fund his lavish lifestyle for a decade. He thought he had cornered a billionaire. He thought Elias Vance would pay any price to protect his pristine public reputation from a messy scandal.
He had no idea who he was dealing with.
Elias didn't get angry. He didn't raise his voice.
Instead, a slow, terrifyingly cold smile spread across his lips.
“Five million dollars,” Elias murmured, tilting his head. “That’s a very specific number, Marcus. Is that what my life, my home, and these two little girls are worth to you?”
“Take it or leave it,” Marcus sneered, puffing out his chest. “Otherwise, tomorrow morning, every headline in New York will be about Elias Vance stealing another man’s wife.”
Elias turned slowly toward the security intercom on the wall.
“Henderson.”
“Yes, Mr. Vance?” the intercom crackled instantly.
“Bring in file number 88-Delta.”
“Right away, sir.”
May you like
Marcus frowned, his confidence flickering for a fraction of a second. “What is that?”
“That,” Elias said, turning back to face him with eyes as cold as deep-space vacuum, “is the reason you’re never going to see a single cent of my money, Marcus. In fact, by sunrise tomorrow, you won't even own the clothes on your back.”
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