Chapter 17 - The Counter-StrikeBack in the city, the federal prison housing Eleanor Vance was quiet, save for the hum of fluorescent lights down the cell block.
Eleanor sat on her narrow metal cot, staring blankly at the concrete wall. Her expensive silk blouse had been replaced coarse orange prison scrubs; her manicured nails were chipped and bare. She was isolated, cut off from her lawyers, her money, and her power.
Suddenly, the heavy steel door of her cell clanked open.
A prison guard stepped aside, and two federal marshals entered, flanked by a tall, imposing figure in a tailored charcoal suit.
Eleanor slowly turned her head. Her eyes widened in absolute horror as Julian Vance stepped into her cell, flanked by Arthur and—most terrifying of all—a woman she was certain she had successfully erased from the world thirty years ago: Helena Vance.
"Hello, Eleanor," Helena said smoothly, her voice echoing coldly off the concrete walls.
Eleanor stumbled backward against the cot, her breath catching in her throat. "No... no, that's impossible. You're... you're dead!"
"Disappointing for you, isn't it?" Julian stepped forward, his eyes burning with absolute ice. "The Scottish archives are fully open. Blackwood Manor has been reclaimed. And every single treasonous document, corporate sabotage log, and offshore money-laundering receipt you hid has been handed over to the federal prosecutor's office."
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Eleanor opened her mouth to shriek, to deny, to threaten—but no words came out. The absolute terror of a ruined empire crashed down on her chest.
"You're not just looking at attempted murder anymore, Eleanor," Julian whispered, leaning down close to her ear. "You're looking at high treason, corporate espionage, and federal conspiracy. You will spend the rest of your natural life behind these bars."
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