The 40th floor of Miller Tower no longer reflected the gleam of luxury. In the conference room that had once been where Arthur Miller dictated the rules of business along the American West Coast, all that remained was the scent of despair, scattered reports, and a suffocating silence.Julian Vance walked through the mahogany double doors without knocking. His footsteps rang out sharply, echoing through every corner of the room, now empty of the directors. They had fled to save themselves the moment they heard the news of total bankruptcy and the blacklist issued by Raymond Thorne.At the far end of the long table, Arthur Miller sat slumped in his chair. His shoulders, once always held with arrogant pride, now sagged heavily. The old man seemed to have shrunk inside his expensive suit as he stared blankly at the glass table, which now reflected the ruined face staring back at him. Beside him, Christian Miller stood restlessly, cold sweat dampening his temples. The con artist no longer

The smell of old archives and yellowing papers filled the basement archive of the San Francisco municipal records building. This place was far removed from the chaos of Wall Street, isolated from the glare of camera flashes, and hidden behind thick, soundproof concrete walls. This was where the Miller family's most rotten secrets, and the beginning of the kidnapping that had stolen his life, had been tightly concealed for three decades.Julian Vance stood before a towering steel shelf. His hands, covered in thin leather gloves, opened a dusty cardboard box. Inside were illegal adoption documents, hospital rulings from Portland dating back to 1990, and a faded Polaroid photograph showing a young woman crying on a hospital bed.The woman in the photograph was his late mother, his true biological mother from the Vance clan, not the Miller family woman he had been forced to call "Mother" throughout his childhood."All the administrative evidence is complete, Young Master," Thomas's voice

The spotlights from dozens of private and national television networks were blinding anyone who stepped onto the front grounds of the National Press Club in Washington, D.C. That autumn morning, the air was biting cold, but the atmosphere outside the building was far hotter than fire. Journalists shoved against one another, microphones were thrust high into the air, and camera lenses swarmed like a hive of bees that had caught the scent of fresh blood.Inside the main press room, which could accommodate hundreds of people, a heavy silence suddenly descended as the massive screen behind the podium flickered to life.Bold letters appeared against a pitch-black background:THE MILLER-STERLING CONSPIRACY: EXPOSING THE ILLUSION OF ELITE.Julian Vance sat in the front row of the VIP section, dressed in a tailored midnight-black wool suit with a perfectly knotted dark gray silk tie. His expression was calm, almost emotionless. To his right, Thomas Vance stood rigidly like a guardian statue,

The monitor screens in the underground command center of Vance Tower glowed brightly, projecting a digital map of the Port of New Jersey with red coordinates blinking slowly across it. At the center of the room, Julian Vance stood with his arms folded across his chest, his sharp gaze fixed on the streams of data being transmitted by the cyber-intelligence team."They're moving faster than we anticipated, Young Master," Thomas Vance reported, his fingers moving deftly across the holographic control console. "Madam Mei just transferred three million dollars into an offshore shell account under Marcus Blackwood's name. The money is being used to bribe the head of our port logistics department in Sector B-4."Julian narrowed his eyes. A cold, faint smile appeared at the corner of his lips."The head of logistics in Sector B-4? Isn't that bastard David Miller? No, not that Miller family. David, the one we fired from the regional distribution division over that minor bribery case?""Exactly

The antique wall clock in Arthur Miller's now-seized private office ticked slowly, its hollow echoes reverberating through every corner of the lifeless room.Inside a three-by-three-meter federal isolation cell on the outskirts of New York, Arthur stared at the dull concrete ceiling, his eyes filled with profound anguish. There were no more designer suits, no more imported cigars, and, most painfully of all, no remnants of the illusion of power he had once worshiped.The cell door clanged heavily as a broad-shouldered prison guard opened it. Beyond the dimly lit corridor stood a silver-haired middle-aged man in an immaculate suit, a silk handkerchief tucked neatly into his breast pocket.Thomas Vance.The man stepped inside without a sound, carrying a cold aura that seemed to lower the temperature of the cramped cell instantly.Arthur did not even bother turning his face away from the wall."Did you come here to laugh at me again, old lawyer?" His voice was hoarse, broken, and rough a