Chapter 3 - The Traitor’s Price
While Lily slept, the lower levels of the Blackwood empire were descending into a state of absolute war.
In the sub-basement security office of the tower, Maxwell Blackwood stood behind a wall of twenty monitors. Arthur Vance was typing furiously on a terminal, his face illuminated by the blue light of a tracking sequence that was currently scanning every security camera in the tri-state area.
"We found her vehicle, sir," Arthur said, hitting a key that zoomed in on a gray sedan parked in the long-term lot at JFK Airport. "She bought a ticket for a 9:15 PM flight to Miami under her maiden name, Eleanor Vance. No relation to me, thank God."
Maxwell didn't blink. He leaned over the console, his knuckles turning white against the metal frame. "Did she board?"
"No, sir. Our private security detail at the terminal intercepted her at the gate. We have her in the secondary holding office near Terminal 4. The Port Authority police are standing by, but I told them to wait until you arrived."
Maxwell straightened up, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. The exhaustion of the day was entirely gone, replaced by a cold, calculated fury. Eleanor had been Ethan’s physical therapist and primary caretaker for three years. She had been vetted by the highest security agencies in the country. She knew that Ethan’s condition—a rare neurological variance that caused temporary lower-limb paralysis under extreme stress or physical exertion—required constant supervision.
She hadn't just left him. She had abandoned him in the middle of a freezing park because she had been paid to disappear.
"Who funded the account, Arthur?" Maxwell asked, his voice dead and even.
"A shell company registered in the Cayman Islands called Aegis Holdings," Arthur said, sliding a printout across the desk. "We traced the wire origin through three European banks. It leads back to your brother-in-law's investment fund, Richard Sterling. He’s been trying to short Blackwood Industries stock for six months. If Ethan... if Ethan hadn't survived the night, the stock would have collapsed tomorrow morning during the shareholder meeting."
Maxwell took the paper. He didn't tear it. He simply folded it neatly and tucked it into his breast pocket.
"Get the car," Maxwell said. "I want to see Eleanor before the feds take her. And Arthur—call the board members. Tell them the shareholder meeting is moved up to 6:00 AM tomorrow. I want Richard’s seat empty before the opening bell."
Thirty minutes later, inside the sterile concrete holding room at JFK, Eleanor Vance sat handcuffed to a metal table. Her expensive fur coat was rumpled, her mascara smeared with tears of panic. When the door opened and Maxwell walked in, she let out a small, terrified gasp and tried to shrink back into her chair.
"Maxwell, please," she wept, her voice trembling. "Richard told me he would take care of me. He said Ethan would just be found by the park rangers within an hour. He said it was just to cause a temporary distraction! I didn't know the storm would hit so fast!"
Maxwell didn't sit down. He stood over her, his shadow covering the metal table completely.
"My son spent nine hours on the frozen ground because of you, Eleanor," Maxwell said, his voice so quiet it was almost a whisper, yet it filled the room with a terrifying weight. "He almost lost his legs permanently. He almost lost his life. You didn't just break a contract; you signed your own execution."
"I have a family, Maxwell!" she screamed.
"You had one," Maxwell corrected her. "As of midnight, your assets are frozen. Your house in Connecticut, which was purchased with a loan from Blackwood Credit, is being foreclosed upon tomorrow morning. Your licenses as a medical practitioner are revoked globally. And Richard Sterling cannot help you, because by the time you are arraigned at noon tomorrow, he will be sitting in the cell right next to yours."
He turned toward the door without waiting for her reply.
"Maxwell!" she shrieked behind him. "Who found him? The park cameras were turned off! Who found him?!"
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Maxwell paused at the threshold, his hand on the heavy iron brass handle. He thought of the small girl in the tattered denim coat who had stayed in the freezing wind when everyone else had walked past.
"A queen," Maxwell said softly before the door slammed shut.
