Chapter 11 - The Inheritance of CindersWinter wrapped Chicago in a shroud of gray ice, but inside the federal penitentiary visiting room, the air was stagnant and smelled of cheap floor wax and unwashed despair.
Preston Vance sat across the thick plexiglass partition, his fingers twitching against the metal table. The custom-made tuxedo that once draped his frame like second-skin royalty had been replaced by a coarse orange jumpsuit with inmate number 48820-CHI stamped across the chest. His hair, previously styled by high-end stylists every three weeks, was now untamed and greying sharply at the temples.
He didn't look like the golden boy of the Vance dynasty anymore. He looked like a cornered animal realizing the trap had closed permanently.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Preston rasped, his voice cracking through the intercom speaker.
I adjusted the collar of my wool coat on the other side of the glass. I hadn't come to gloat—not entirely, anyway. I had come to finish closing the ledger.
"Preston, I haven't thought about you in weeks," I replied calmly, my voice steady against the hum of the fluorescent lights. "I came because the federal liquidators wrapped up the final asset auctions yesterday. Vance Enterprises is officially dead. The name has been struck from every commercial registry in the state."
Preston slammed his palm against the glass, though the heavy barrier muffled the blow. "That was my empire! Dad built that for me! You stole my life, Evelyn!"
"No, Preston," I said, leaning forward so he could see the absolute absence of fear in my eyes. "You built a house of cards on top of a landfill, and then you handed me the matches the moment you raised that wooden board against my daughter. You destroyed yourself."
He stared at me, his chest heaving, the veins in his neck bulging. For thirty years, he had lived believing he was untouchable because our parents had cushioned every fall, excused every cruelty, and rewritten every mistake. Now, facing twelve consecutive years behind bars with no parole eligibility, reality had finally caught up.
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"Mom and Dad won't even answer my letters," he whispered, his bravado suddenly evaporating into pathetic misery. "They lost the condo. They're living off a meager pension in Florida. They blame me."
"They blame everyone except themselves," I said softly, standing up and sliding my gloves back onto my hands. "Just like you. Goodbye, Preston. Enjoy the rest of your life."
