Chapter 6 - The Secret Portfolio
While Derek awaited trial in a maximum-security holding facility, I sat in the sprawling penthouse office of Sterling Global Holdings, looking out over the city skyline as the evening lights began to flicker on.
There was a knock on the door, and Marcus stepped inside, holding a thick, leather-bound ledger.
“Mr. Sterling, the asset liquidation of Vance Logistics is complete,” Marcus reported, laying the ledger on my desk. “We absorbed their remaining infrastructure, integrated their logistics network into our supply chain, and liquidated their residential properties. Total net recovery for the trust: fifty-eight million dollars.”
“Good,” I said, not turning away from the window. “Set aside twenty million in a secure, irrevocable trust exclusively for my grandson, Gideon. Make sure neither Derek nor Bertha can ever touch a single cent of it, even through legal loopholes or court orders. It unlocks on his twenty-first birthday.”
“Done,” Marcus said, making a note on his tablet. “What about the mother, Bertha? She’s currently staying in a modest motel on the outskirts of the city, attempting to rally her former high-society friends. Unsuccessfully, I might add.”
“Let her try,” I replied calmly. “Pride is a heavy anchor, Marcus. Let her drown in it.”
Marcus hesitated for a moment, shifting his weight. “There’s one more thing, sir. A visitor downstairs. She insisted on seeing you personally, despite security protocols.”
“Who?”
“Arianne’s mother-in-law. Bertha Vance.”
I raised an eyebrow, a cold, humorless smile touching the corner of my lips. “Send her up.”
Ten minutes later, the heavy double doors of my penthouse office swung open. Bertha marched in, looking desperate, disheveled, and stripped of her usual armor of wealth and privilege. She stopped in the center of the plush Persian rug, staring at the panoramic view, and then at me sitting behind the massive mahogany desk.
“You played a long, disgusting game, Jonathan,” Bertha hissed, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. “Living like a pauper in a dusty cottage, hiding your billions just to trap my son.”
“I didn't trap your son, Bertha,” I said softly, standing up and walking slowly toward her. “Your son walked straight into a trap of his own arrogance. He thought he could abuse my daughter, isolate her, and break her spirit because he believed we were weak.”
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“We made mistakes—” Bertha started, her voice cracking.
“No,” I interrupted, my voice dropping an octave, carrying the terrifying weight of an empire built from nothing. “You didn't make mistakes. You made choices. And now, you live with the consequences.”
