Chapter 2 - The Sound of an Empty Fortress
Seventy-two hours later, a sleek black Mercedes-Maybach pulled up the winding,
cobblestone driveway of the Vance-Cole estate in Greenwich, Connecticut.
Adrian sat in the back, nursing a headache brought on by three days of endless
champagne and media attention. Beside him, Celeste was scrolling through her
phone, admiring the tabloid headlines: Adrian Cole Steps Out with Muse Celeste
Grant as Divorce Looms.
"Are you sure she’s still in the hospital?" Celeste purred, adjusting her
oversized designer sunglasses. "I really don't want to deal with a hysterical,
sickly woman making a scene. We have the investor dinner at Le Cirque tonight."
"Don't worry about Vivian," Adrian sneered dismissively, straightening the cuffs
of his bespoke cashmere coat. "She’s weak-willed and desperate for my approval.
Her father spoiled her, but she doesn't have the stomach for conflict. Once she
realizes I’ve already moved the initial capital into Grant Creative, she’ll sign
the uncontested settlement just to save face. She always folds when I push."
The Maybach came to a halt in the circular front courtyard.
Adrian stepped out onto the gravel—and instantly stopped.
A massive commercial semi-truck was slowly pulling out of the secondary service
gate, its heavy diesel engine rumbling in the cold morning air. Adrian watched
in confusion as seven sets of heavy tire tracks scarred the pristine gravel
driveway.
"What the hell is moving out?" Adrian muttered, his brow furrowing. "Did Vivian
hire decorators without telling me?"
"Maybe she's finally clearing out her father's old study," Celeste said,
stepping out after him, her high heels clicking on the stone. "Good. That room
has smelled like old leather and dust for years. I want to turn it into my
personal content studio."
Adrian walked up the broad marble steps to the front entrance. He reached into
his pocket, pulled out his biometric key fob, and held it to the scanner.
The scanner beeped red. Access Denied.
"What?" Adrian growled. He swiped it again. Access Denied.
He grabbed the heavy brass handle and pulled. The heavy double doors were
completely unlocked. In fact, they were slightly ajar.
Adrian pushed the doors open and stepped into the grand foyer.
"Vivian?" he called out, his voice echoing through the entryway. "What is going
on here? Why are the locks reset?"
The sound of his own voice bounced back at him with a strange, hollow resonance.
Adrian took three steps forward into the two-story foyer and froze.
The twenty-four-foot crystal chandelier that had hung from the domed ceiling
since 1928—a Vance family heirloom imported from Vienna—was gone. In its place
was a gaping hole in the plaster and exposed wiring neatly capped with yellow
safety nuts.
The hand-woven Persian runners that lined the grand staircase had been stripped
away, leaving only bare, polished oak steps.
The marble pedestals holding sixteenth-century Italian busts were missing.
The walls, which had once held an eight-million-dollar private collection of
Impressionist oil paintings, were completely blank. Only square patches of
slightly unfaded paint marked where the masterworks had hung hours earlier.
"Adrian..." Celeste whispered, stepping into the foyer behind him. Her voice
sounded unnervingly small. "Where... where is everything?"
Adrian didn't answer. A cold knot tightened in his stomach. He broke into a
sprint, his polished leather shoes squeaking against the bare floors as he
rushed into the formal living room.
Empty.
The custom velvet sofas, the marble coffee table, the grand Steinway piano that
had belonged to Vivian’s mother—all gone.
He ran into the dining room.
The twenty-seat mahogany dining table, the antique china cabinet, the solid
silver service sets—vanished.
He sprinted up the stairs, taking them three at a time, and slammed open the
doors to the master wing.
The king-sized custom bed was gone. The walk-in closets were bare down to the
wooden hangers. The climate-controlled jewelry vault built into the wall stood
wide open, its steel shelves completely bare.
Even the high-end Bang & Olufsen sound system had been systematically
uninstalled from the walls.
The house was not just packed; it had been surgically stripped. Every single
item of value, every piece of art, every stick of furniture, every heirloom down
to the custom brass switchplates had been packed into eight moving trucks and
driven away to an undisclosed, climate-controlled bonded warehouse.
Adrian stood in the center of the massive, echoing bedroom, his breath coming in
ragged, shallow gasps.
"No... no, no, no," Adrian muttered, his hands running through his hair. "She
can't do this. This is marital property! This is my house!"
"Adrian!" Celeste shrieked from the downstairs foyer. "Come down here! Look at
this!"
Adrian rushed back down the barren staircase, his heart hammering against his
ribs like a trapped bird.
Celeste was standing in the middle of the empty foyer floor.
There, placed precisely in the exact center of the vast, polished marble floor,
sat a single, pristine white envelope.
On the front, written in elegant, unyielding black calligraphy, was a single
word:
May you like
ADRIAN.
Adrian walked over, his hands trembling with a sudden, violent rage. He snatched
the envelope off the cold floor, ripped open the wax seal, and pulled out the
thick stack of documents inside.
