A brief pause.
“Entirely.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“And the apartment?”
“Let your attorney explain that.”
Then his voice turned colder.
“Do not warn Julian about anything.”
At the next stop, two black civilian sedans were already waiting. A woman in a dark suit helped me inside a vehicle fitted with a newborn car seat, bottled water, blankets, and everything Liam and I needed.
My phone vibrated.
Julian.
Mom wants the SUV tomorrow too, so don’t make plans.
Another message followed.
And clean up before we get home. Investors may stop by tonight.
I stared at the screen.
Julian thought I was still riding home to warm leftovers and wait obediently for him.
He had no idea whose daughter I really was.
And before he even finished lunch, someone was already waiting beside my SUV in the restaurant parking lot—with ownership documents in hand.
PART 2
The man waiting beside my SUV wasn’t wearing a uniform.
That was the first thing Julian noticed.
He was in a charcoal suit, standing calmly beside the driver’s door with a leather folder tucked beneath one arm.
Beatrice noticed him second.
“Julian,” she said as they walked out of the restaurant. “Who is that?”
Julian barely looked concerned.
Probably because men like Julian only recognized danger when it arrived loudly.
This danger smiled.
“Mr. Julian Vance?”
Julian stopped.
“Yes?”
The man opened the folder.
“My name is Aaron Wells. I represent Elena Sterling.”
PART 3
Julian stared at Aaron Wells, his eyebrows knitting together in mild irritation rather than concern. He adjusted the cuffs of his expensive designer jacket, stepping forward with his usual arrogant swagger.
“Elena sent a lawyer?” Julian scoffed, letting out a short, dismissive laugh. “Is this about taking the SUV for lunch? Tell her she can have her vehicle back tonight when I’m done with my meetings. She’s being absurdly dramatic.”
“You misunderstand, Mr. Vance,” Aaron Wells replied smoothly, his tone as cool and polished as polished marble. “I am not here to ask for the keys. I am here to repossess property registered exclusively under the name of the Sterling Family Living Trust—a revocable trust managed by General Marcus Sterling.”
Beatrice scoffed loudly behind her designer sunglasses, fanning herself with a manicured hand. “A trust? General? Don’t be ridiculous. Her father is some mid-level retired pencil-pusher living on a government pension. Julian, tell this man to move away from our car before we call the police.”
Aaron Wells didn’t flinch. He reached into his leather folder and produced a certified copy of the vehicle’s title, alongside an emergency court order signed by a senior federal judge ninety minutes ago.
“The police are already aware, Mrs. Vance,” Wells said politely. “In fact, if you look to your left, you’ll see NYPD officers arriving right now to ensure the peaceful surrender of the vehicle.”
Two uniformed police officers stepped out of an approach cruiser, walking briskly toward the SUV. Julian’s face flushed a deep, mottled red as diners on the outdoor patio of the upscale restaurant turned to watch the scene unfold.
“What is the meaning of this?!” Julian demanded, his voice cracking slightly. “I am her husband! We are married!”
“And as of 1:15 PM today, a petition for legal separation and emergency protective custody has been formally filed in the Southern District of New York,” Wells informed him, handing Julian a thick stack of legal documents. “Furthermore, the credit cards issued under the Sterling corporate umbrella—the ones you utilized to pay for your family’s lunch ten minutes ago—have been canceled.”
Julian’s eyes went wide. He snatched his wallet from his pocket, pulling out the sleek black card he had used to settle the $1,200 lunch bill. “Canceled?! I just signed the receipt!”
“And the transaction was declined thirty seconds later,” Wells noted with a polite, razor-sharp smile. “The restaurant manager is currently standing at the front host desk, waiting for you to provide a valid form of personal payment.”
“Julian!” Beatrice gasped, her aristocratic composure completely shattering. “Do something! This is public humiliation!”
“Hand over the keys, Mr. Vance,” the lead police officer instructed firmly, stepping between Julian and the driver’s door. “Or we can process this as unauthorized use of a motor vehicle.”
PART (END)
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