Chapter 3: The Fire This Time
Clara’s hand tightened around her phone, her knuckles turning white, but her face remained an unreadable mask of stone. She looked up at Julian, who was smiling wickedly, straightening his tie.
"I need a ten-minute recess," Clara said to the board, her voice betraying absolutely no panic.
The board agreed, murmuring anxiously as Clara, John, and Nora hurried out of the boardroom into a private holding area. The moment the door clicked shut, John turned to her. "Clara, what did he say to you? Your pulse is racing, I can see it."
Clara showed him the photograph on her screen.
John’s breath caught in his throat. "Isabella... she’s insane! She’s going to burn the housing center? There are over forty families sleeping there right now!"
"She has nothing left to lose," Nora said, her face grim. "Her father’s assets are frozen, her reputation is gone, and Julian clearly offered her a way out—flee the country with a fraction of the patent money if she eliminates Clara’s crown jewel."
"We call the Chicago police," John said fiercely, already dialing his phone.
"No," Clara intercepted, lowering his hand. "Julian has a police scanner app active on his phone; I saw it open. If the Chicago police dispatch a siren, Isabella’s accomplice drops the match immediately. We have to handle this directly."
Clara looked at the clock. It was 11:42 AM. She had eighteen minutes before Julian’s deadline.
She sat down at the table, opened her purse, and took out her old silver necklace—the one containing the folded sliver of paper from Laura Reed. She stared at it for three seconds, drawing strength from the memory of the woman who had trusted her with this impossible burden.
"Nora," Clara said, her voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm, sharp register. "Call the CEO of the local Chicago power grid. Tell him the Reed Foundation is reporting a major electrical hazard at the city block surrounding the housing center. Tell him to cut the power to that entire street. Immediately."
"Cut the power?" John asked, confused. "Why?"
"Because if the streetlights and security cameras go dark, Isabella and her man will hesitate for a few seconds to figure out what happened. That gives our private security team on-site exactly sixty seconds to move in without being seen," Clara explained. She then turned to John. "And you are going to make a phone call."
"To who?"
"To Isabella."
John stared at her, then understood. He pulled out his phone and dialed Isabella's private cell number, which he had never deleted.
In Chicago, outside the dimly lit housing center, Isabella Vale stood in the shadows of an alleyway, her heart pounding against her ribs. Her fingers were trembling as she held her phone. Suddenly, the screen lit up with John's name. She gasped, her thumb hovering over the screen before she answered, her voice spitting venom. "John? If you're calling to beg, save your breath. Your stepmother ruined my life, and now I'm going to take away her precious little charity."
"Isabella, listen to me," John's voice came through the line, sounding completely broken, perfectly playing the role of the desperate, defeated heir. "Don't do it. Clara just broke down in the boardroom. She's signing the paperwork right now. Julian won. You're getting your money, Isabella. If you burn that building, it becomes a federal arson charge. Julian will drop you the second you become a liability. He’s using you, just like your father used me."
Isabella froze. She looked at her accomplice, who was unscrewing the cap of the gasoline container. "He's... she's signing it?"
"Yes," John pleaded, tears sounding real in his throat. "Just wait ten minutes. Let Julian call you and confirm the transfer. Please, Isabella. I don't want anyone to die."
At that exact moment, the entire street block in Chicago plunged into pitch-black darkness. The streetlights died, the building lights shut off, and a sudden silence fell over the alleyway.
"What the—" Isabella's accomplice muttered, dropping his flashlight.
Before they could react, four dark figures stepped out of the shadows of the alley—the Reed Foundation's elite private security team. In a matter of seconds, the accomplice was tackled to the ground, the gasoline container secured, and Isabella was pinned against the brick wall, zip-ties securing her wrists.
"Target secured," the security chief's voice echoed through Clara's speakerphone back in New York. "No injuries. The Chicago police are arriving now under silent approach."
Clara stood up, walking back toward the boardroom doors. She looked at Julian, who was waiting in the hallway, smugly checking his luxury watch.
"It's 12:00 PM, Clara," Julian smiled, holding out a digital signature tablet. "Do we have a deal, or do we have a tragedy?"
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Clara took the tablet from his hand. Instead of signing it, she raised her hand and slammed the heavy glass screen directly against the marble corner of the corridor wall. The tablet shattered into a dozen pieces.
"The only thing you're inheriting today, Julian," Clara said, her voice cold as ice, "is your brother's cell."
