The Unrivaled Heir

Chapter 4

The rhythmic hiss of the ventilator filled the dim quiet of Presidential Suite One.

Marcus stood beside the wide glass window, his knuckles resting against the cold steel railing of his mother's bed.

Evelyn's chest rose and fell in steady, measured intervals, the monitor tracing a clean green pulse.

Dr. Bradley hovered near the door, his hands clasped behind his back, sweating through his collar.

Marcus turned around, his wet delivery jacket still reeking of sour wine and rainwater.

"If anything happens to her while I am gone, I'll kill you," Marcus said.

Bradley flinched, lowering his eyes to his shoes.

"I will personally remain outside this room until sunrise, Mr. Vance," Bradley said.

Marcus walked past him without another word, stepping into the empty service elevator.

Twenty minutes later, his rusted moped skidded onto the oil-stained pavement of Commerce Row.

He parked beneath a flickering neon sign outside an all-night legal archives office on the third floor.

He pushed through the frosted glass door and walked into a narrow room stacked high with cardboard boxes.

Behind an ancient steel desk, Raymond Croft sat reviewing papers under a single yellow bulb.

Croft was sixty, with thinning white hair and ink stains smudged across his rumpled cuffs.

He had managed the Vance family trust archives for thirty years before the collapse nine years ago.

Croft looked up from his reading glasses, his mouth tightening into a thin, disgusted line.

"Julian called me thirty minutes ago from his car," Croft said, tossing a red pen onto the desk.

"He told me you forged dead-man signatures and attacked hospital staff to stay out of a cell."

"I have no interest in Julian's phone calls, Croft," Marcus said, stepping to the desk.

"You're a delivery boy in a torn jacket, Marcus," Croft said, leaning back in his swivel chair.

"Your father's empire was picked clean by vultures nine years ago."

"If you came here looking for scraps from the old trust accounts, turn around and walk out."

Marcus pulled out his cracked phone, tapping the screen with a bloodstained thumb.

"Give me your commercial escrow routing number," Marcus said.

Croft let out a dry, hacking laugh.

"My initial consultation retainer is twenty-five thousand dollars, boy."

"Give me the number," Marcus repeated, his voice dangerously low.

Croft shook his head with an irritated sigh and turned the plastic desk placard toward Marcus.

"Go ahead," Croft scoffed. "Show me how a beggar pays twenty-five thousand."

Marcus typed the numbers into his banking application and pressed the transfer key.

He did not send twenty-five thousand.

He sent five hundred thousand dollars.

Two seconds later, the desktop terminal behind Croft emitted a loud electronic chime.

A green window flashed on the monitor, updating the firm's trust ledger in real time.

Croft glanced at the screen, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes.

He put his glasses back on and stared at the trailing row of zeroes.

"Five hundred thousand..." Croft whispered, his fingers hesitating above the keyboard.

He looked up at Marcus, the arrogance draining completely from his weathered face.

Marcus's phone screen blinked once in his palm, logging the updated ledger line:

[TRANSFER CONFIRMED: $500,000.00 DEDUCTED.]

[CURRENT ACCOUNT BALANCE: $9,000,000.00.]

"Mr. Vance," Croft said, his chair creaking as he pushed himself upright.

"You are a licensed trustee of the Vance Foundation deeds," Marcus said.

"Sit down and tell me how my aunt Cecile is selling the ancestral estate at dawn."

Croft swallowed hard, pulling a heavy black leather binder from the bottom steel drawer.

"She can't," Croft said, his voice dropping to a rapid, nervous whisper.

"The founding charter has a hard covenant written into the municipal land registry."

"The estate cannot be transferred without the living heir's biometric authorization or verified primary seal."

"Then what is she signing with Ethan Larson in three hours?" Marcus asked.

"A bridge loan," Croft said, turning the binder around to point at a red-stamped clause.

"Cecile took thirty million dollars from Larson's private lending front to cover her gambling arrears."

"She promised the estate as the primary asset backing the debt."

"If the deed title is not delivered to Larson by six o'clock this morning, the loan defaults automatically."

"And what happens on default?" Marcus asked.

"Larson's enforcement clause allows him to seize every parcel of land under the foundation's corporate umbrella," Croft said.

Croft looked up, his eyes wide behind his lenses.

"Marcus... that collateral includes the ground beneath Central Hospital."

"If Larson signs that default execution at dawn, he legally owns the building your mother is sleeping in."

Marcus stared at the red-stamped signature line on the document.

"Where is the signing?" Marcus asked.

"The Grand Horizon Hotel," Croft said. "Penthouse floor, six sharp."

Marcus took his phone off the desk and turned toward the exit.

"Keep the five hundred thousand," Marcus said. "Have the deed injunction ready by five."

Marcus drove back to Central Hospital, the night air turning bitterly cold as dawn approached.

He killed the scooter engine in the rear ambulance bay, stepping through the sliding glass doors into the main lobby.

Standing by the front reception desk was a woman in a long beige cashmere coat.

Her dark hair was tied back in a loose clip, her posture rigid as she spoke to a night nurse.

It was Clara Larson.

She turned around as the glass doors slid shut, her dark eyes locking onto Marcus's mud-stained boots.

She walked straight toward him, ignoring the curious glances of the desk clerks.

"You're Marcus, aren't you?" Clara asked, her voice soft but strained with tension.

"You delivered documents to my father's office on High Street last winter."

Marcus stopped three feet from her, keeping his hands inside his jacket pockets.

"Yes," Marcus said.

"I heard what Julian Vance did on the fourth floor tonight," Clara said, her eyebrows pulling together in distress.

"He bragged on the family's message thread that he threw a dying woman into the hall for a cosmetic suite."

"I came here to pay her transfer fees to a private hospice in the capital."

"She doesn't need a transfer," Marcus said. "She is in Presidential Suite One."

Clara stared at him, taking in the cut on his cheek and the dried red wine crusted on his jacket.

"Marcus, you don't understand what is happening this morning," Clara said, dropping her voice.

"My brother Ethan is meeting your aunt and Julian at the Grand Horizon in less than two hours."

"I know about the meeting," Marcus said.

"Then you know he brought twenty armed private enforcers from the southern district to seal the lobby?" Clara pressed, stepping closer.

"They have orders to shoot anyone who steps off the private elevator without clearance."

"Why would they seal the hotel for a contract signing?" Marcus asked.

"Because they know you were at the hospital tonight," Clara said, her voice shaking slightly.

"Julian told Ethan that you are a loose end that needs to be buried before the title clears."

"Why are you telling me this, Clara?" Marcus asked.

Clara looked at him, her fingers tightening around the leather strap of her purse.

"We have hurt too many people, Marcus, and I won't watch another innocent person get hurt."

"Take your mother and get on the morning train out of Halden."

"You cannot fight twenty men with guns."

Marcus looked past her shoulder toward the wall clock above the reception desk.

It was four-fifteen.

"Are they on the penthouse floor?" Marcus asked.

Clara took a step closer, looking up into his dark, unblinking eyes with sudden alarm.

"Did you hear a word I just said, Marcus?" Clara asked.

"Do you really think you can walk into that penthouse and leave alive?"