Chapter 5 - Live from the Crime SceneAt 4:00 p.m., while Nathan was still holding meetings with his PR team celebrating his "masterful" public statement, over fifty top journalists from The New York Times, Forbes, and Vanity Fair were admitted into the Sterling penthouse.
They were not led into the grand ballroom. They were led up the stairs, down the hallway, and directly into the baby's nursery.
I stood beside the crib, dressed in an immaculate white silk maternity suit. Behind me sat Margaret Crane and Dr. Sarah Lin—the head of Psychiatry at Mount Sinai Hospital and a close personal friend of my late grandmother.
The journalists gasped as they saw the room.
The pale green paint was still visibly fresh in certain corners. The tiny gold stars looked tacky against the historic moldings. And there, pinned directly under a high-powered spotlight, was the brass plaque: Designed by Sloane Vale Interiors.
Beside the plaque was a massive easel displaying enlarged financial documents, bank wire transfers, and a sworn affidavit signed an hour ago by Dr. Robert Hayes confessing that Nathan Vance had attempted to bribe him to sign a false psychiatric evaluation.
I stepped up to the microphone array set up near the crib.
"Good afternoon, everyone," I said, my voice smooth, resonant, and completely unwavering. "Three hours ago, my husband, Nathan Vance, informed the press that I was mentally unstable, emotionally paranoid, and incapable of managing my affairs."
I gestured to Dr. Sarah Lin.
"This is Dr. Sarah Lin," I continued. "She has just completed a comprehensive, board-certified psychiatric and physical evaluation of my health. Her full report—which has already been submitted to the Supreme Court of New York—confirms that I am in perfect physical and mental health, with zero signs of cognitive impairment."
Flashes went off like lightning in the small room.
"What you see behind me," I said, pointing to the door, "is not a nursery renovation. It is physical evidence of a systematic attempt by Nathan Vance and his associate, Sloane Vale, to commit financial fraud, unauthorized property alteration, and corporate embezzlement against the Sterling Heritage Trust."
I pulled out a tablet and tapped the screen. A loud audio recording began playing through the room’s speakers.
It was a recorded phone call from two nights ago—a call Nathan had made to my grandmother’s trust officer, completely unaware that all trust lines were automatically recorded under estate protocols:
Nathan’s voice: "Just process the signature release for the five million! Evie is pregnant and out of her mind right now! She won't even remember signing it once the baby is born. Just put the funds into the Vale account!"
The room erupted into absolute chaos. Reporters were shouting questions, typing furiously on their phones, and broadcasting the audio live across national television.
At that exact moment, the nursery door swung open.
Nathan stood in the doorway, holding a briefcase, having rushed back to the penthouse after hearing rumors of a media gathering.
He walked straight into a wall of fifty camera lenses, flashing strobes, and national journalists capturing his horrified, pale face live on air.
He looked at the easel. He looked at the audio speakers. He looked at me.
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"Evie..." Nathan choked out, his voice trembling before millions of viewers. "What... what have you done?"
"I didn't do anything, Nathan," I said, stepping forward, standing tall and proud in front of my daughter's crib. "You painted the target on this door yourself. I just let the world see what was behind it."
