CHAPTER 2: THE FEAST AT LARKSBURG COURT
12:15 PM EST.
The historic Georgian mansion at 1440 Larksburg Court sat high atop the frozen granite bluffs of McLean, Virginia, overlooking the slate-gray, wind-whipped waters of the Potomac River like an imperial fortress of old generational money.
The circular asphalt driveway was cleared of snow, salted to a clean, black gloss, and packed bumper-to-bumper with eight-hundred-thousand dollars worth of European engineering: three Mercedes-Maybach sedans, a silver Aston Martin DB12, and the dark-charcoal Range Rover Autobiography belonging to Marcus Sterling-Vance.
Inside the four-thousand-square-foot formal dining room, beneath three Austrian crystal chandeliers that cast thousands of prismatic diamond reflections across the hand-blocked silk wallpaper, the temperature was a comfortable seventy-two degrees.
The scent of roasting heirloom heritage turkey, sage stuffing, dark French truffles, and vintage port wine hung heavy in the humid, perfumed air.
Around the twenty-foot reclaimed English walnut banquet table sat sixteen people dressed in bespoke afternoon cocktail attire.
At the head of the table, sitting in the high-backed carved armchair where my daughter Chloe normally sat, was **Victoria Sterling**.
Twenty-six years old.
The daughter of Arthur Vance’s primary Zurich banking partner.
Draped in a three-thousand-dollar sleeveless sheath of emerald-green silk, her long platinum hair swept over her bare shoulder, wearing a seven-carat emerald-cut diamond ring on her middle finger—a ring that had been purchased from Chloe’s private savings account forty-eight hours ago.
To her right sat **Marcus Sterling-Vance**.
Thirty-four years old.
Senior Vice President of Procurement for Vance-Sterling Defense Logistics.
He wore an immaculate bespoke three-piece suit of midnight-blue English flannel, his silver hair brushed back from an imperial, un-wrinkled brow, his cufflinks flashing eighteen-karat gold as he lifted a crystal flute of vintage Roederer Cristal:
“To the future of Vance-Sterling,” Marcus purred, his voice carrying that polished, patrician velvet cello that had charmed seventy corporate boardrooms:
“To our distinguished CEO, Arthur Vance, who honors our table today. And to Victoria… who brings the elegance, the breeding, and the financial pedigree that this house has so desperately lacked for three years.”
Across the table, **Sylvia Sterling-Vance**—Marcus’s sixty-two-year-old mother—beamed like an empress whose territorial conquests had finally been certified by the church.
She wore a heavy mauve silk dress, her neck wrapped in three strands of South Sea pearls that had been pulled out of Chloe’s jewelry box before sunrise. Between her manicured, diamond-encrusted fingers, she held a gold-plated carving knife:
“Hear, hear!” Sylvia laughed, a sharp, grating, triumphant sound that echoed off the high plaster ceiling:
“I always said that some people are born to sit at high tables, and some people are born to scrub the floorboards beneath them! You should have seen that little mouse this morning, Arthur! She actually thought she could challenge Marcus’s corporate proxy! She wept like a cornered animal when we reminded her where her place was!”
Sitting at the foot of the table, wearing a dark-navy wool three-piece suit that cost twelve thousand dollars, his silver hair cropped with absolute military precision, was **Chief Justice Arthur Sterling-Vance**.
Seventy-six years old.
The patriarch of the Vance dynasty.
The man who had controlled the federal judiciary for forty years.
Arthur took a slow, leisurely sip of his Pinot Noir, his cold, flint-gray eyes sweeping across the lavish spread:
“Where is the girl now, Marcus?” Arthur asked, his tone flat, clinical, carrying zero paternal warmth: “You ensured she was disposed of without forensic complications?”
“She’s at the downtown bus terminal, Uncle Arthur,” Marcus sneered, waving his linen napkin dismissively:
“I called her pathetic, doting mother at five o’clock this morning to scrape her off the bench. By now, the old widow has dragged Chloe back to her drafty little bungalow in Norwood. They’re probably sharing a frozen pot pie and crying into their cheap tea towels.”
Marcus bared his white, veneered teeth in an arrogant grin:
“Eleanor is a frail, half-blind old woman who doesn’t know the difference between a civil tort and a municipal parking citation. She thinks I’m an angel for marrying her plain-jane daughter. She will never question the settlement waivers.”
“And the four hundred million dollars from Zurich?” Arthur asked, leaning his heavy forearms onto the table.
“Transferred into **The Valkyrie Trust** at zero-nine-hundred hours, sir,” Marcus answered:
“The survivorship papers are prepared. The moment Chloe defaults on her legal appearances, the entire sixty-acre subterranean right-of-way beneath this estate… reverts directly into our private corporate pocket.”
Sylvia raised her glass toward Victoria:
“To the trash that took itself out to the curb!”
*CLINK.*
The crystal glasses met above the golden roasted turkey.
And then…
The lights went dead.
