Chapter 3 - The Interrogation
By midnight, Blackstone House had ceased to be a home; it was a crime scene.
Flashing blue and red emergency lights painted the grand exterior windows in an eerie, pulsing glow. Paramedics had already transported Oliver to Mercy General Hospital, accompanied by a fiercely protective Isabella, who refused to leave the boy’s side until she knew he was safe. Julian, however, remained in the massive glass-walled study on the ground floor, pacing across the Persian rug like a caged animal while two local detectives quietly reviewed the evidence logs.
The heavy oak doors swung open, and Officer Vance gestured toward the hallway.
Two uniformed officers escorted Vivienne into the room.
She no longer looked like the untouchable queen of Madrid society. Her ivory gown was stained with sweat at the collar, her hair was slightly undone, and her makeup was smudged from hours of frantic, useless denials in front of the precinct investigators. But the moment she saw Julian standing by the mahogany desk, her defensive instincts flared back to life.
“Julian,” she breathed, rushing forward with her hands clasped pleadingly. “You cannot possibly believe the lies that woman told! That boy has always been unstable, he fabricated this whole story for attention, he—!”
“Stop talking, Vivienne,” Julian said. His voice wasn’t loud. It was flat, hollow, and utterly devoid of human warmth.
She froze three feet away from him. “Julian, look at me. We are married. We are a family. You’re going to let a disgruntled housekeeper destroy everything we share over a delusional child’s tantrum?”
“A tantrum?” Julian turned around slowly, his eyes boring into hers with a look so terrifying that Vivienne instinctively took a step back. He reached down to the desk and picked up a clear plastic evidence bag containing a small, bruised apple and a crushed juice carton retrieved from the hidden room. “Is locking a seven-year-old child in an unventilated brick cavity for five days a tantrum, Vivienne? Is starving him and telling him his dead mother went crazy a tantrum?”
Vivienne’s throat went dry. Her eyes darted toward the open door, noting the two police officers blocking the exit. She realized, with a sudden, sickening jolt, that the trap had snapped completely shut. The high-society connections, the carefully cultivated charity boards, the expensive lawyers—none of them could save her from the physical evidence recovered from behind the hunting painting.
“He was… he was in the way,” Vivienne whispered, her mask finally dissolving completely into a bitter, venomous snarl. “He was an obstacle. He cried for Elena every single night. He reminded you of a dead woman when I was trying to give you a future! I only wanted what belonged to us, Julian!”
“What belongs to us?” Julian stepped closer, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched violently. “He is my son. And you are a monster.”
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Officer Vance stepped forward, pulling a pair of cold steel handcuffs from his belt. “Vivienne Blackstone, you are under arrest for kidnapping, child abuse, and reckless endangerment. You have the right to remain silent…”
The metallic click of the cuffs echoing in the study was the final sound of Vivienne’s empire crumbling. As they led her away, her head held high in stubborn, arrogant defiance even as her fingers shook, Julian didn’t watch her leave. He sat down heavily in his leather chair, buried his face in his hands, and finally let the tears break through.
