Chapter 7 - THE TAKEDOWN
Arthur gripped the podium so hard his knuckles cracked. "Julian? What... what are you doing out of bed? The doctors said—"
"The doctors said I needed rest," Julian interrupted, slowly descending the stairs. Every step was deliberate, powerful, and commanded absolute authority. "But it's hard to rest when you discover your own brother cut the brake lines on your Aston Martin."
The ballroom erupted into a chaotic murmur. Shareholders whispered furiously; reporters pulled out their phones.
"He's delusional!" Arthur shouted, his perfectly manicured facade cracking violently. "Listen to him! This is the brain damage talking! Security, get him back to his room!"
None of the guards moved. They didn't work for Arthur anymore.
Julian reached the bottom of the stairs and walked straight toward the stage. Clara stayed near the staircase, watching the masterpiece unfold.
"I'm not delusional, Arthur," Julian said, his voice deadly calm. He snapped his fingers.
The massive projector screens behind the stage, which were supposed to show charity metrics, suddenly flickered. A highly detailed forensic report appeared on the screen, highlighting clean wire-cutter marks on the Aston Martin's brake cables.
"That's circumstantial!" Arthur spat, sweating profusely now. "You can't pin that on me!"
"No," Julian agreed. "But I can pin the wire transfers. The ones you routed through our offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands to pay off the mechanic at the private garage."
The screen shifted, displaying damning financial ledgers, bank routing numbers, and Arthur’s digital signature.
"And just in case anyone thinks I'm medically unfit," Julian continued, pulling his phone from his pocket, "let's play a fun piece of audio from three days ago, when my dear brother tried to bribe my head of household to abandon me while I was recovering."
Julian pressed play. Arthur's vicious, drunken voice echoed through the ballroom speakers, offering Clara half a million dollars to disappear and threatening to ruin her life.
The silence that followed was apocalyptic.
Arthur looked left and right, like a trapped rat. The shareholders were staring at him in disgust. The board members he had bribed were physically backing away from him.
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"Julian, please," Arthur whispered, his voice trembling. "We're family."
"No, Arthur," Julian said coldly, stepping aside as four men in FBI windbreakers entered the ballroom from the side doors. "We just share DNA. My family is upstairs."
