Chapter 7 - The Voice of the Guard“GRANDPA!”
The word cut through the chaos like a lightning bolt.
The entire crowd went dead silent. The reporters lowered their notebooks. The camera operators zoomed past the podium toward the front row of the audience.
Laurel had stepped over the press barrier. She had set Dash down on top of a media equipment crate right in front of the main stage.
Dash wasn't crying. He wasn't terrified. He was holding his dirty, torn stuffed rabbit in one hand, pointing his tiny finger straight at Victor Vance.
“Grandpa Victor!” Dash called out, his little voice amplified by a reporter’s directional microphone that had been dropped right in front of him. “Mommy said you were the mean king who made Daddy sleep forever!”
Gasps rippled through the crowd like a shockwave.
Victor Vance’s face turned completely white. The blood drained from his cheeks so fast he looked like a ghost standing under the bright morning sun.
“Who… who is that child?” a lead investigative reporter from NBC shouted, thrusting her microphone toward the stage.
“That is Dashiel Vance,” Laurel’s voice rang out, strong, clear, and unyielding as she stepped beside her son, removing her hat and sunglasses. “The son of Julian Vance. And for eight months, I have had to hide him on a cold wooden bench in a public park because his grandfather threatened to erase him if he ever claimed his father's name!”
The flashbulbs became a blinding storm. Dozens of reporters shoved past the police line, surrounding Laurel and Dash, hurling questions at maximum volume.
“Is this true, Mr. Vance?” “Was Julian Vance murdered?” “Are you denying this is your grandson?”
Victor stumbled back against the podium, completely speechless. His pristine image, built over forty years of political maneuvering, dissolved on live international television in less than sixty seconds.
Arthur Sterling tried to usher Victor toward the back exit, but two federal agents—who had been quietly monitoring the Attorney General's signal from the side of the stage—stepped out from the wings, blocking their path.
The State Attorney General looked up from the documents I had handed him. He looked at Victor, then at Arthur, and finally at the little boy holding the stuffed rabbit.
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“Victor Vance,” the Attorney General said, his voice cold and echoing through the PA system for millions of viewers across the country to hear. “You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, obstruction of justice, and corporate fraud. Take him into custody.”
The crowd erupted into wild cheers and screams. Handcuffs clicked around Victor Vance’s wrists on live television.
