Chapter 3: The Price of Truth
The guards stepped forward, their black-suited shoulders blocking Marcus's path to the exit. Marcus cursed under his breath, smoothing his tie with trembling fingers as he realized his leverage had evaporated in less than five minutes.
Julian walked around the edge of the large round table, stopping a few feet away from me. Up close, I could see the fine lines around his eyes—not from age, but from the relentless strain of protecting a massive investment empire from parasites like Marcus.
"What's your name?" Julian asked.
"Clara," I said. "Clara Hayes."
"Clara Hayes," he repeated, tasting the syllables as if cataloging them in a ledger. "Dr. Clara Hayes? Or did they strip the title when they forced you out?"
I swallowed hard, the memory of the faculty senate room flashing behind my eyes—the mahogany table much like this one, the old men in gray suits telling me that certain truths were better left buried for the sake of the institution's reputation. "They didn't strip the degree. They just made sure no university on this side of the Atlantic would ever hire me to teach."
"Because you found a forgery?"
"Because I wouldn't hide it," I corrected softly.
Julian studied me for a long moment, his gaze uncomfortably thorough. Then he turned back to the table, picked up the fraudulent parchment, and rolled it into a neat cylinder. He slipped it into his inner jacket pocket.
"Marcus," Julian said without turning around. "My office will audit every acquisition you've brokered over the last three years. If even one of them is a fake like this, you won't just be out of a job; you'll be answering to federal investigators."
"You're destroying us, Julian," Marcus spat, his voice cracking with desperation as the guards gripped his arms and steered him toward the service exit. "You're ruining everything we built."
When the heavy doors clicked shut behind them, the private dining room suddenly felt vast and quiet. The pendant chandelier cast a warm, amber glow over the white tablecloth, illuminating the abandoned water pitcher and the silver tray.
May you like
Julian turned back to me. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a heavy gold-plated cardholder, and extracted a thick black business card embossed with silver lettering. He held it out between us.
"I have a private archive downtown," Julian said, his voice steady and low. "Thousands of manuscripts, deeds, and artifacts acquired over decades. Marcus handled most of the acquisitions." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "I need someone who isn't afraid of institutional corruption. I need a scholar."
