Chapter 3 - The Cold Awakening
The morning sunlight sliced through the custom silk drapes of the master bedroom, illuminating the California king bed where Andrew Vance stretched luxuriously.
Beside him, Brenda stirred, her bare arm draped lazily over his chest. "Mmm, close the curtains, baby," she mumbled, nuzzling into his shoulder. "Your little maid gave us quite a show last night, didn't she? I still can't believe you threw her out like trash."
"Trash belongs on the curb," Andrew laughed smugly, kissing the top of her head. He reached over to the nightstand to check his phone for any congratulatory messages from his board members about the upcoming merger.
He swiped the screen.
No service.
"Strange," Andrew muttered, sitting up and frowning at the device. He clicked on his mobile banking application to check his portfolio balance before breakfast.
A stark red warning banner flashed across the OLED display:
CRITICAL ALERT: ACCOUNT TEMPORARILY SUSPENDED. CONTACT YOUR PRIMARY ADMINISTRATOR.
"What the hell is this?" Andrew tapped furiously, trying to load his corporate accounts.
Access Denied. Entity Frozen under Escalante-Global Trust.
Panic, cold and sudden, spiked in his veins. He threw off the covers, leaped out of bed, and bolted down the grand marble staircase toward his private study, half-dressed in his silk pajama pants.
Downstairs, Margaret was sitting at the breakfast island, sipping her morning espresso while reading the financial section of the Wall Street Journal.
"Andrew, darling, tell the kitchen to make my eggs Benedict softer today," Margaret called out without looking up. "And do something about that terrible noise your phone is making. It's giving me a headache."
"Mom, look at this," Andrew stammered, shoving his phone into her face. "My accounts... they're frozen. All of them. The corporate ledger is locked out!"
Margaret lowered her coffee cup, scoffing lightly. "Don't be dramatic, Andrew. Call the bank manager. Tell them who you are—tell them you're a Vance."
Before Andrew could dial, the heavy front mahogany doors—the same doors Mariana had walked out of the night before—unlocked with a sharp, electronic chime.
Andrew whipped his head around, expecting a courier or a maid. Instead, four tall men in identical charcoal suits marched into the foyer, led by Victor Vance holding a thick leather briefcase.
"Get out of this house!" Andrew roared, rushing toward the foyer. "Who let you in? I'm calling the police!"
May you like
Victor didn't even blink. He stopped, pulled an official document from his briefcase, and tossed it onto the marble floor right at Andrew’s bare feet.
"You can't call anyone, Mr. Vance," Victor said coldly. "Because the phone lines, the utilities, and the deed to this property no longer belong to you."
