Chapter 8 - THE GHOST OF BEL-AIR
Three weeks later, the transformation of the Bel-Air estate was broadcast across the local news channels.
The iron gates bearing the Sterling crest had been unbolted and hauled away in the back of a flatbed truck. The sprawling white mansion, once the symbol of Andrew’s unearned arrogance, was now surrounded by scaffolding and construction crews.
Inside the executive boardroom of Escalante Tower on Wilshire Boulevard, I stood before a massive architectural model detailing the upcoming expansion of our international philanthropic foundation.
My father stood beside me, his weathered hand resting on my shoulder.
“The foundation will break ground on the Bel-Air site next spring,” Alberto said, his dark eyes surveying the blueprint with quiet satisfaction. “A rehabilitation and education center for women escaping abusive environments. I can think of no better use for a house built on arrogance and debt.”
“Nor can I, Papa,” I said, turning away from the model to look out at the glittering expanse of the city.
The phone on my desk buzzed softly.
Julian stepped forward, picking up the receiver, listening for a moment before covering the mouthpiece with his palm.
“It’s a local shelter downtown,” Julian reported. “They have a transient individual who refuses to leave the intake lobby without speaking directly to you. He’s claiming... well, he’s claiming he’s your husband.”
I turned slowly, my expression calm, untouchable, and utterly detached.
“Tell them to call the police,” I said. “I don't know any Andrew Sterling.”
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Julian spoke into the phone for three seconds, then hung up.
Outside, down on Wilshire Boulevard, the rain began to fall again—a gentle, washing rain that cleansed the dust from the streets and left the asphalt shining like polished obsidian.
