Chapter 8 - The Depth of the AbyssThe subterranean detention facility beneath the Vance headquarters was a masterpiece of modern engineering. Silent, climate-controlled, and completely sealed off from the outside world, it felt more like a scientific research lab than a prison.
We walked down the sterile, white-lit corridor, our footsteps echoing softly against the seamless epoxy flooring. The intelligence officer led us to Cell 402—a high-security holding suite enclosed by thick, reinforced acoustic glass.
Inside, pacing back and forth like a caged animal, was Marcus Vance.
Gone was the immaculate Tom Ford suit. He wore a standard-issue grey detention jumpsuit, his hair disheveled, and the expensive cuff links that had once symbolized his untouchable status were nothing more than a distant, painful memory.
When he heard our footsteps approach the glass partition, he whipped around. For a second, a flicker of arrogant defiance crossed his face, but it dissolved instantly when he saw who was standing on the other side.
Marcus rushed toward the glass, slamming both palms against the transparent alloy barrier.
"Victoria! Uncle Arthur!" Marcus screamed, his voice muffled slightly by the soundproofing but still full of desperate fury. "You can't do this! This is kidnapping! This is illegal detention! You're destroying our family name!"
My father didn't flinch. He simply walked up to the glass, resting one hand casually in his pocket, and stared at Marcus the way a scientist might observe a particularly unpleasant specimen under a microscope.
"Our family name, Marcus," my father said quietly, his voice transmitting through the intercom system into the cell, "was built on industrial innovation, integrity, and absolute strength. You turned it into a brand for extortion and cowardice."
Marcus bared his teeth, his face turning red with rage. "You ruined me! You took everything! My money, my company, my freedom—everything I spent my entire life building!"
I stepped up beside my father, letting the glass barrier separate us while the power dynamic remained entirely in our hands.
"You didn't build any of it, Marcus," I said coldly, my voice cutting through his rant like ice. "You inherited a throne, and then you used it to crush everyone beneath you, thinking there would never be a reckoning."
Marcus glared at me, venom dripping from his eyes. "You think you're so smart, don't you? Just because your father bailed you out with an army of mercenaries! Without him, you're nothing! You're just a charity case with a bruised face!"
I didn't lose my temper. I didn't raise my voice. I simply smiled—a calm, serene smile that made Marcus take an involuntary step backward inside his cell.
"Marcus," I whispered softly, "do you want to know the funniest part of all this?"
He stopped pacing, staring at me with a mixture of confusion and dread. "What?"
"The charity gala where you threw me into the wall?" I tilted my head. "It wasn't a random invitation. My father and I spent six months studying your firm's corruption patterns, waiting for you to slip up in public."
Marcus froze, his mouth dropping open in absolute horror as the realization finally crashed over him.
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"You..." he choked out, his voice barely a whisper. "You set the whole thing up..."
"We didn't set you up, Marcus," I said, turning away from the glass and adjusting my blazer. "We simply gave you enough rope to hang yourself."
