Chapter 4 - The House CleaningBy midnight, the Bel Air estate was dead silent except for the rhythmic patter of rain against the glass and the sound of professional movers packing up Chloe’s designer wardrobe into black industrial trash bags.
Beatrice and Leo had already been escorted off the property by security. Without their active credit lines, their luxury cars had been repossessed at the front gate within an hour of the asset freeze. They had been forced to call an ordinary taxi—something Beatrice probably hadn't done in thirty years.
I stood in the center of the grand kitchen, holding a cup of hot chamomile tea.
The dining table still held the untouched roasted duck and the cold wild-mushroom risotto. The single dollar bill was still lying on the floor where Julian had dropped it during the scuffle. I walked over, bent down, and picked it up.
I didn't throw it away. I folded it neatly and slid it into my pocket as a souvenir. A reminder of human stupidity at its finest.
My phone chimed. It was a secure notification from Arthur Vance, the senior managing partner of my family’s legal conglomerate, Vance & Sterling International.
“All corporate accounts fully secured,” the message read. “Thorne & Sterling has formally initiated procedures to strip Julian of his partnership and equity shares due to criminal indictment. The Bel Air property title has been reverted cleanly to your primary personal trust. Whenever you're ready to return to New York, the corporate jet is at Van Nuys Airport.”
I typed a brief reply: “Thank you, Arthur. I’ll be flying out tomorrow morning. But first, I have a company to restructure.”
Julian thought he was the master of the universe, but he was merely an employee riding on the coattails of my family's legacy. When he tried to cut me out, he inadvertently cut the lifeline that kept him afloat. Thorne & Sterling wasn't his firm; it was a subsidiary client of our family’s venture capital fund, and Julian had just embezzled from the very fund that paid his salary.
The next morning, the sun broke through the heavy clouds, casting a golden light over the wet Bel Air lawns.
I walked out onto the second-floor balcony, breathing in the crisp, clean air. Down at the front gates, a news van from a local Los Angeles station was already parked outside, cameras flashing as reporters breathlessly covered the spectacular downfall of Wall Street wunderkind Julian Thorne and his dramatic arrest for corporate fraud.
My phone rang again. It was an unknown number, but caller ID showed it was coming from the downtown county holding facility.
I pressed accept.
"Elena?" Julian’s voice sounded hollow, desperate, and exhausted. He must have spent the entire night in a holding cell. "Elena, please... my lawyer says the preliminary hearing is tomorrow. They're denying bail because of the flight risk and the interstate wire fraud charges. They're looking at ten to fifteen years."
"That sounds about right for white-collar embezzlement and falsifying corporate documents," I replied calmly.
"You can stop this!" he cried out, his voice cracking. "You have the power to withdraw the corporate complaint! If you sign an affidavit saying it was a marital dispute, the federal prosecutor will drop the felony counts!"
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"Julian," I said, my voice steady and warm, yet absolute in its finality. "When you dropped that dollar bill on my plate last night, you taught me a very valuable lesson about investments. Some investments are fundamentally bankrupt. You are the worst investment I ever made. And just like any bad portfolio choice, I am writing you off completely."
I hung up the phone and blocked the number.
