Chapter 15 - The Gilded Mask
Alistair Thorne lived in a fortress of old American wealth on the North Shore of Long Island.
The estate, known as Highgate Manor, sat perched above the rocky cliffs of the Atlantic.
He was seventy-two years old, a retired industrialist who attended every Sterling family dinner and sent orchids to my hospital room every week.
When I was paralyzed, Alistair wept at my bedside.
He held my hand and promised that God would punish whoever caused the wreck.
Now, sitting in the passenger seat of Marcus’s SUV as we drove through the wrought-iron gates, every memory turned to poison.
Clara had secured a private audience under the pretense that I needed Alistair's counsel regarding the upcoming federal trial.
Two armed guards in dark suits guided us up the grand marble staircase to the second-floor library.
The room was vast, lined with thousands of leather-bound books and smelling of pipe tobacco and aged brandy.
A massive stone fireplace crackled with burning birch logs.
Alistair Thorne sat in a wingback chair by the fire, holding a glass of amber scotch.
He looked frail, with silver hair and gentle, wrinkled eyes that radiated fatherly warmth.
"Julian, my boy," Alistair said, smiling warmly as he motioned toward an empty chair. "I heard about the spectacle at the gala. Walking again! It is an absolute medical miracle."
I didn't smile.
I walked across the Persian rug and stood directly before him, towering over his chair.
"It wasn't a miracle, Alistair," I said, my voice ice-cold. "It was eighteen months of agony, surgeries, and keeping my mouth shut."
Alistair’s smile slowly faded into a look of grandfatherly concern.
"You seem tense, son. Sit down. Have a drink with me."
"I found Sal Vance's work order," I said without flinching.
The glass of scotch in Alistair's hand paused halfway to his lips.
The fire crackled, spitting an ember against the iron screen.
"Did you?" Alistair asked, his tone remarkably calm.
"Contract Number 88," I continued. "Modified brake pressure. Billed to Sterling Senior."
Alistair lowered his glass to the small mahogany table beside him.
He didn't look surprised. He didn't look afraid.
He simply looked tired.
"Arthur was a brilliant man, Julian," Alistair said softly. "A visionary. But he was weak when it came to family."
"Don't speak my father's name," I snarled.
"Your father wanted to dissolve Sterling Global before he died," Alistair said, looking directly into my eyes. "He wanted to liquidate our overseas defense contracts and turn the corporation into a harmless charity foundation."
"And you couldn't allow that," I deduced.
"Sterling Global moves governments, Julian. It builds naval ships and controls communication satellites."
Alistair leaned forward, the firelight casting long, demonic shadows across his face.
"Your father had to be removed," Alistair whispered. "A quiet heart attack in his sleep."
A sickening wave of rage surged through my veins.
"You murdered my father."
"I preserved our empire," Alistair corrected smoothly. "And then you grew up. You looked just like him. You had his morals, his conscience, his stubborn idealism."
"So you orchestrated my crash."
"I tried to spare your life, Julian," Alistair sighed. "That was my mercy. You were supposed to remain in that wheelchair, living comfortably off dividends, while Martin and I ran the machine."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small gold pocket watch.
May you like
"You should have stayed seated, Julian," Alistair said, checking the time. "Because now, you leave me no choice."
***
