Chapter 4 - THE VANCE COUNTERATTACKBy midnight, the Westbridge estate resembled a military fortress under siege.
Outside the wrought-iron front gates, a swarm of paparazzi trucks and black luxury sedans flashed cameras and hurled angry shouts into the night air. Word of Victoria Vance’s humiliating expulsion from the mansion had leaked to the tabloids within forty minutes, sparking a media firestorm of epic proportions.
Inside the cavernous, dimly lit mahogany study, Julian sat behind his massive executive desk. He wasn't looking at the flashing lights outside or the hundreds of missed notifications blowing up his phone screen. His eyes were fixed on the security monitors displayed across the wall of screens.
On camera feed four, in the sprawling, luxurious east-wing guest suite—now hastily reassigned as the nursery—Clara sat on the edge of a king-sized velvet bed. Maya had finally cried herself to sleep, her tiny thumb tucked safely in her mouth, exhausted by the emotional whirlwind of the day. Clara looked around the opulent room in a daze, still unable to believe that just hours ago she had been scrubbing baseboards in the basement hallway.
Knock. Knock.
The heavy study door creaked open, and Marcus, Julian’s fiercely loyal head of private security, stepped inside, closing the door securely behind him.
"Mr. Westbridge," Marcus began, his voice grim. "The perimeter is locked down tight. Not a single reporter has breached the grounds. However... we have a major problem."
Julian didn't look up from his tablet. "Spit it out, Marcus."
"It's Marcus Vance. He didn't just take the firing of his daughter lying down. Within twenty minutes of Victoria getting home, the Vance family convened an emergency meeting with the primary shareholders of Westbridge Enterprises. They’ve frozen three of our major shipping accounts in Europe, and they are calling for an emergency board vote at 8:00 AM tomorrow morning to strip you of your CEO title."
Marcus paused, swallowing hard. "They're claiming you're mentally unstable, citing a sudden, erratic breakdown over a 'common domestic employee' as grounds for immediate removal under clause 9 of the corporate charter."
A slow, chilling smile touched the corners of Julian’s lips. It wasn't a smile of defeat; it was the look of a grandmaster watching his opponent walk straight into a carefully laid checkmate.
"Let them try," Julian said calmly, setting his tablet down on the desk. "Vance thinks he owns the board because he controls thirty percent of the legacy shares. But he forgot one crucial detail."
"What's that, sir?"
"Three years ago, anticipating a hostile takeover attempt from the Vance family, I quietly established a shell holding company in Zurich," Julian said, his dark eyes gleaming with suppressed triumph. "I bought up every single undervalued share they dumped during the market dip. As of midnight tonight, I hold fifty-one percent of the voting rights. The board vote tomorrow isn't going to oust me, Marcus. It’s going to be public execution for the Vance dynasty."
Marcus let out a low whistle of respect. "Remind me never to play poker with you, boss."
"There's more," Julian added, his tone shifting from corporate coldness back to something deeply personal. "How is Clara?"
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"Settling in, sir. But she's terrified. She thinks this is all a dream—or worse, a nightmare that she's going to wake up from. She keeps asking when the other shoe is going to drop."
Julian stood up, buttoning his tailored suit jacket with deliberate precision. "Tell her the shoe dropped three years ago when I lost three years of my daughter's life to their greed. I'm going up to see them."
