Chapter 52 - The Voice on the Encrypted Channel
The screen flickered, revealing not a lavish private jet, but a sterile, modern concrete interior with massive floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows overlooking a gray, mist-shrouded body of water. Through the mist, the distant, unmistakable silhouette of the Jet d'Eau fountain pierced the skyline.
Lake Geneva. The ultra-wealthy private estate corridor of Cologny.
Isabella was sitting at a glass conference table. Gone was the panic from three hours ago; she had regained her icy, aristocratic poise. She was dressed in an ivory cashmere sweater, her manicured fingers steepled under her chin. Standing behind her in the shadows was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a charcoal suit with a coiled earpiece—mercenary security.
And resting on the table right beside her elbow, wrapped in a pale blue blanket, was our son.
Khloe gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Tears instantly pooled in her eyes, but she swallowed her sobs, refusing to give her sister the satisfaction of seeing her break. "Give him back, Isabella. Look at him... he’s your nephew! How can you look at his face and do this?!"
*"He has your chin, Khloe,"* Isabella said, her voice smooth, almost detached, as if discussing a piece of antique furniture. *"He really is quite lovely. But you know as well as I do that sentimentality is a luxury our family could never afford."*
"Our family?" Khloe’s voice turned deadly. "You aren't my sister. Catherine told us everything before the water took her. You knew our parents were murdered. You knew I was harvested. You let them treat me like an incubator!"
Isabella’s eyes narrowed slightly, a microscopic crack in her armor. *"Catherine spoke too much. She always thought she was the puppet master. But Catherine made one fatal mistake: she thought I was loyal to her. She thought I was just her obedient little socialite runner."*
Isabella leaned forward, her face filling the camera frame.
*"Do you know what it was like growing up knowing I was just a placeholder?"* she hissed, the bitter poison finally spilling over. *"I was Catherine’s golden child until the genetic sequencing tests came back when I was twelve! They found out I didn't carry the Vance bloodline marker! Overnight, I went from being the sole heiress of an empire to being a glorified maid, an administrative shadow while Catherine spent millions tracking down *you*—the precious, lost, biological miracle child living in a miserable suburban tract house in Columbus!"*
"I didn't ask for any of this!" Khloe cried. "I loved you! I trusted you with my life!"
*"And that trust made me very, very wealthy,"* Isabella smiled, though the smile didn't reach her dead eyes. *"You had everything, Khloe. You had the bloodline, you had Marcus, you had the chance at a normal, happy, pathetic little life. But the Vance fortune belongs to the one who was smart enough to survive the bloodbath. Not the one who inherited the chromosomes."*
"What do you want, Isabella?" I interrupted, stepping into the camera's view, my voice hard and flat. "You didn't call to give a monologue. You know the liquidation protocol. You know Catherine is dead. And you know you can't unlock that offshore transfer without Khloe’s biometric signature."
Isabella chuckled, tapping her manicured nails on the glass table. *"Marcus. Always the detective. Always the protector. You really are exhausting."*
She reached down and gently slid her fingers across our newborn son’s forehead. The baby squirmed slightly in his sleep.
*"Here is the arrangement,"* Isabella said. *"The Swiss board convenes at midnight tonight at the private Vance estate on the northern shore of Lake Geneva. If Khloe arrives with Grace, hands her over to my custody, and signs the voluntary guardianship transfer before the notary, I will allow you both to walk away. You can keep the Ohio house, you can keep your miserable lives, and I will wire five million dollars to a secure account in Marcus’s name. A generous severance package."*
"And if I refuse?" Khloe asked, her voice trembling with lethal intensity.
Isabella tilted the camera down toward our baby boy. Beside the infant lay a small, clinical syringe filled with clear, colorless fluid.
May you like
*"If you don't arrive by eleven-thirty tonight—or if you notify the authorities—a very tragic case of neonatal respiratory failure will occur before midnight,"* Isabella whispered. *"And without both twins, the trust will still liquidate forty percent to my offshore account anyway. You have ten hours, Khloe. Bring my niece to Lake Geneva. Or plan a funeral."*
The screen went black.
