Chapter 4 - The Rot Underneath
"What do you mean, 'or the billionaire who owns it'?" Julian asked, his voice carefully controlled, masking the sudden defensive spike in his chest. "Julian Sterling isn't even here. How is he responsible for his employees' corruption?"
Elena walked over to the tasting table, picking up the bottles of Cabernet with practiced care. "He’s responsible because he built the culture, Mr... whatever your name is."
"John," Julian lied smoothly. "My name is John."
"Well, John," she said, turning to face him, the dim vault lighting casting golden highlights across her dark hair. "Mr. Sterling is a legend among the staff, and not a good one. He’s a phantom who only cares about bottom lines and profit margins. He fires people over typos. He treats human beings like mechanical parts in a machine. When the man at the top acts like a ruthless predator, the people below him realize that loyalty is a joke. So they grab whatever they can before they get thrown in the trash."
She sighed, a deep, heavy sound that seemed to carry the weight of the entire world. "Marcus and Mrs. Gable aren't anomalies. They are the natural product of Julian Sterling’s world. Now, please, you need to leave before someone comes down here. If Marcus catches you inside the house, he won't just throw you out—he’ll beat you within an inch of your life and dump you for the police."
"He wouldn't dare," Julian said coldly.
"He would," Elena countered, stepping closer, her expression softening with genuine concern. "Last month, a local reporter tried to sneak onto the grounds to take photos of the rose gardens. Marcus broke his collarbone and claimed it was self-defense against an intruder. Mr. Sterling’s legal team made the charges disappear in twenty-four hours. Please, John. Go back through the service tunnels. I won't report you."
Julian stared at her. The reality of her words hit him harder than any corporate loss he had ever suffered. His wealth—the legal team he paid millions of dollars a year to protect his brand—was being used to cover up violent assaults committed by his own domestic security against unarmed citizens.
He had become so obsessed with building an empire that he had blinded himself to the rot festering at the foundation.
"I'll leave," Julian said softly, reaching into the pocket of his oversized trench coat. He pulled out a small, folded piece of parchment—a blank memorandum slip from his Manhattan office that he had accidentally left in his pocket when he disguised himself. "But take this."
"What is it?" she asked, wary.
"If you ever need help—real help, not a piece of bread through a fence—go to the public library in town. Call the number on that paper and ask for Arthur. Tell him John sent you from the cellar."
Before she could question him further, heavy footsteps echoed at the top of the limestone stairs.
May you like
"Elena! What's taking so long with that wine?" Marcus's voice boomed down the stairwell.
Julian didn't hesitate. He melted back into the dark shadows behind the reserve casks, moving with silent precision toward the secondary ventilation exit that led out to the coastal cliffs.
