Chapter 3 - The Weight of a Name
The question hung in the humid night air like an anvil.
Julian felt a strange prickle at the back of his neck, but his alcohol-fueled ego won the battle over basic survival instincts. He scoffed, stepping forward so he was standing two paces from the older man.
"Your daughter?" Julian laughed, gesturing dismissively at Clara with his phone. "You mean this intern? Look, grandpa, your kid caused a scene at my celebration party. She practically threw herself in to get attention. I've got it all on video."
The older man looked at Julian's phone. Then he looked Julian directly in the eye.
"You pushed her," the man said. It wasn't an accusation. It was a recorded fact.
"And what if I did?" Julian snapped, getting into the man’s face. "You know whose house this is? This is Arthur Sterling’s estate. I’m Julian Sterling. My family owns the development firm Clara begs scraps from. So take your cheap coat, grab your charity-case daughter, and get off my property before I have private security throw you both into the street."
From the edge of the terrace, an older woman dropped her wine glass. It shattered against the flagstones, spraying red liquid across her designer shoes.
"Julian... shut up," someone hissed from the front row of guests.
Julian didn't look back. "Shut up? Why should I shut up? Look at him! Some old washed-up nobody driving a ten-year-old sedan thinks he can intimidate me?"
The driver who had opened the Maybach’s door took a half-step forward, reaching inside his jacket, but the older man raised one gloved finger. The bodyguard froze instantly.
"Julian," the older man said, his voice entirely even. "Arthur is your father?"
"Yeah, he is. The man who could buy your entire bloodline with his pocket change."
The older man took out a sleek titanium flip phone—the kind that didn't have apps, only direct satellite relays. He pressed a single button, brought it to his ear, and spoke without breaking eye contact with Julian.
"Marcus. Call Arthur Sterling on line one. Tell him he has five minutes to get to his backyard, or I will dismantle his holding company before market open tomorrow."
He clicked the phone shut and slipped it back into his pocket.
Julian laughed out loud, pointing at the older man. "Oh, that’s rich! Hear that, guys? The old man thinks he can boss my dad around! Hey, someone get this lunatic on TikTok!"
Around the pool, however, no one was laughing anymore.
Standing near the outdoor bar, a prominent city councilman and two major venture capitalists were backing away toward the gate, their faces completely drained of color.
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"Julian..." Clara whispered from under the coat, her voice steadying. "You really should stop talking."
Before Julian could fire back another insult, the French doors of the main mansion flew open so hard the brass handles dented the drywall.
