THEY MOCKED MY WHEELCHAIR AT THE GALA—UNTIL I STOOD UP AND STRIPPED THEM OF EVERYTHING

The Metropolitan Detention Center smelled of bleach, damp concrete, and cold steel.

I walked down the long corridor, my footsteps steady and deliberate, accompanied only by the escorting guard.

Two days ago, I had arrived at galas in a high-tech motorized wheelchair.

Today, my legs carried me with absolute power, but my mind was sharper than ever.

Behind the reinforced plexiglass in Visitation Room 4 sat Martin Sterling.

His bespoke Italian suits had been replaced by a baggy, stained orange jumpsuit.

The smug arrogance that once defined his face was entirely gone, replaced by hollow eyes and stubble.

I sat down on the metal stool across from him and lifted the black plastic receiver.

Martin stared at my chest for a long moment before slowly picking up his phone.

"You came to gloat," Martin rasped, his voice raw. "You came to watch the cousin you ruined rot in a cage."

"You ruined yourself the second you forged my signature on those corporate transfer deeds," I said calmly.

Martin let out a bitter, trembling laugh.

"You took everything from me, Julian. My house, my accounts, my reputation. The guards treat me like a stray dog."

"I don't care about your comfort, Martin," I said, leaning closer to the glass. "I care about the Cayman transfers."

Martin’s face instantly lost whatever little color remained in his cheeks.

His fingers twitched against the plastic receiver.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he stammered.

"Ares Holdings," I whispered, watching his eyes dilate with genuine terror. "Fifty million dollars wired three weeks before my car flew off the cliff."

Martin swallowed hard, his gaze darting toward the guard standing near the door behind him.

"Drop it, Julian," he begged, his voice dropping to a panicked murmur. "If you value your life, let it go."

"Did you pay someone to cut my brake lines, Martin?"

"No!" Martin shouted, slamming his palm against the glass.

The guard took a step forward, his hand resting on his baton.

Martin pulled his hand back, trembling uncontrollably.

"Daniel and Vanessa and I wanted the company," Martin whispered into the receiver. "We were greedy, yes. We wanted the money, the prestige, the Sterling legacy."

He leaned his forehead against the cold plexiglass, tears welling in his eyes.

"We are thieves, Julian. But we aren't murderers."

"Then who gave you the fifty million?" I asked.

"A broker approached me in Zurich," Martin said, his voice barely audible. "He told me an anonymous benefactor wanted Arthur Sterling's son out of the picture."

My jaw tightened at the mention of my father.

"What did the broker say?"

"He said the board seat was mine as long as I kept you sedated, broken, and tucked away in that wheelchair."

Martin looked directly into my eyes, and for the first time in my life, I saw zero deception in him.

"They didn't want you dead, Julian," Martin whispered. "They wanted you helpless. And whoever they are... they own judges, senators, and kings."

"Where is the mechanic who certified my car that morning?" I asked.

Martin hesitated, his throat bobbing.

"A garage off 14th Street in Long Island City," he choked out. "His name is Sal Vance. But you won't find him there."

"Why not?"