GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! — The Rebecca Mercer Continuation

Natalie Pierce had spent most of her life believing Victor was her half-brother.

Evelyn’s birth certificate proved something stranger.

Victor was Evelyn’s son from an earlier relationship. Adrian Shaw later married her and raised Victor as his own. Natalie was Adrian’s only biological child.

Henry Mercer’s secret reserve had been established for Adrian’s lawful heirs after his death in the Northstar test.

Victor had controlled it for years by claiming to be Adrian’s son.

He was not entitled to a dollar.

Natalie was.

“How much is in the account?” Daniel asked.

“Seven hundred and four million,” Natalie said.

No one spoke.

The amount was enough to stop Northstar’s forced auction.

It was also enough to transform Natalie from a cooperating witness with uncertain prospects into one of the wealthiest people in the room.

Grant stared at her.

Months earlier, he had imagined leaving me to begin a brilliant new life with Natalie.

Now he looked at a woman who could purchase every asset he had ever claimed to own.

Natalie did not look back.

“The reserve cannot be accessed immediately,” she continued. “Victor placed a competing heir claim. The bank requires either a court order or his withdrawal.”

“He will never withdraw,” Lily said.

“Then we need the order before nine tomorrow.”

Naomi filed an emergency petition.

Victor’s attorneys challenged the birth certificate, Adrian’s marriage record, the reserve agreement, and Natalie’s standing. They requested a full evidentiary hearing.

The judge gave both sides six hours.

Corporate law often moved slowly until the wealthy needed it to move fast.

At the hearing, Evelyn testified from her hospital bed by video.

She told the court Adrian loved Victor as a son but never legally adopted him because Victor’s biological father, a man named Paul Rainer, refused consent and later disappeared.

“Did Victor know Adrian was not his biological father?” Naomi asked.

“Yes.”

Natalie closed her eyes.

Another lie uncovered.

“When did he learn?”

“At fourteen. He found letters.”

“Why did he later claim Henry Mercer was his father?”

“Because he believed powerful blood was more useful than loving blood.”

The sentence silenced the courtroom.

Victor appeared through counsel but refused to reveal his location. His lawyers argued that Henry intended the reserve to compensate the entire Shaw household, not only biological heirs.

Naomi presented the agreement.

It used the phrase lawful descendants of Adrian Michael Shaw.

Natalie qualified.

Victor did not.

At eight fourteen in the evening, the judge recognized Natalie as temporary controller of the reserve pending final litigation.

The bank still refused to release funds without in-person identity verification.

Natalie had to reach its Chicago private office by ten.

We arrived under federal protection.

The bank occupied the top floors of a building overlooking the river. Three executives waited in a conference room with biometric equipment and enough paperwork to document a small country.

Natalie completed the scans.

She signed the authorization to repay Northstar’s debt.

The bank’s system rejected it.

ACCOUNT SUBJECT TO SECONDARY CUSTODIAL LOCK.

“Who placed the lock?” Daniel asked.

The executive checked.

“Adrian Shaw.”

“He died thirty years ago.”

“The instruction was entered at account creation. Release requires a physical custodial key.”

Evelyn knew the key.

“It was in Adrian’s watch,” she said by phone. “Victor took the watch after the funeral.”

Victor had carried the key for decades.

At eight forty, he called Natalie.

“I wondered how long it would take Mother to make you feel special.”

“You knew Adrian was my father.”

“I knew biology made him sentimental.”

“You let me believe Henry abandoned us.”

“I gave you a reason to enter Northstar.”

“You used me.”

“You were useful.”

The phrase Judith once used about me returned through another family.

Useful when struggling.

Disposable when inconvenient.

Natalie’s face became still.

“What do you want?”

“The blue server and Schedule Four claims withdrawn.”

“The server is in federal custody.”

“Rebecca can influence the employees.”

I took the phone.

“No.”

Victor laughed.

“You have not heard the rest.”

A video feed appeared.

He stood inside Northstar’s original workshop museum.

The first prototype sat behind him.

Wires ran from its control housing to several containers placed around the gallery.

Explosives.

“The museum contains backup patent drawings,” he said. “It also shares a wall with Blue Lantern’s data center. Martin stored every ownership record there.”

Martin, in custody, had not disclosed that.

Victor held Adrian’s watch.

“Bring Natalie to the museum. She signs the reserve to me. I release the key.”

“The court recognized her control.”

“Courts recognize what survives long enough to be filed.”

He ended the call.

Federal agents prepared another operation.

Natalie objected to being used as bait.

Then she corrected herself.

“No. I object to everyone pretending I am only bait. It is my account, my father, and my decision.”

I understood.

At ten thirty, we entered the museum together.

The displays remained exactly as before, including the insulting caption identifying me as administrative support.

Victor waited beside the prototype.

He wore no suit jacket. His shirt sleeves were rolled, revealing burns from the plant fire.

“You look tired,” I said.

“You look arrested.”

“Temporarily.”

Natalie stepped forward.

“Give me the watch.”

“Sign first.”

He placed transfer documents on Grant’s first workbench.

Natalie read them.

“They move the entire reserve.”

“Yes.”

“You said you needed enough to stop the auction.”

“I no longer care about the auction.”

“Then why destroy the museum?”

“To erase the final architecture.”

I looked at the prototype.

Victor could not reproduce my patent corrections. If Northstar survived under employee control, his power disappeared. Destruction was now more valuable to him than ownership.

Natalie picked up the pen.

“Do not,” I said.

Victor raised his weapon.

“She decides.”

Natalie signed the first page.

Then the second.

Her hand did not shake.

Victor relaxed slightly.

On the third page, she pressed the pen hard enough to break its plastic barrel.

Ink spilled across the signature line.

She threw the broken pen into Victor’s face.

I moved toward the prototype.

Victor fired.

The bullet struck the display case.

Federal agents breached through the roof access.

Victor grabbed the transfer pages and ran behind the historical wall. A hidden door opened into the adjoining data center.

Natalie followed.

I reached the prototype and found the explosive trigger tied to its power switch.

The system was designed so disconnecting one wire would activate another.

Henry had built redundancy into the machine.

Victor had turned it into a trap.

Daniel spoke through my earpiece.

“Can you disarm it?”

“I designed guidance systems, not bombs.”

“But you know the prototype.”

I studied the wiring.

Victor had connected the trigger to the original error-correction circuit. The prototype compared multiple signals before accepting movement.

If I could feed it two identical false conditions, it would reject both.

I used wires from the display lighting.

The trigger light changed from red to amber.

Then green.

“Device safe,” the bomb technician called from behind cover.

In the data center, Natalie cornered Victor beside a server rack.

He held Adrian’s watch.

“You were always jealous of me,” he said.

“No. I was trained to admire you.”

“I made you.”

“You made me useful.”

She stepped closer.

“Rebecca taught me the difference.”

Victor swung the weapon toward her.

Elena fired first.

The bullet struck his shoulder.

He fell against the server rack.

Adrian’s watch slid across the floor.

Natalie picked it up.

For a moment, Victor looked at her not as an accomplice, rival, or instrument.

As a younger sister.

“Do not let them erase me,” he said.

Natalie’s eyes filled but did not soften.

“You erased yourself every time the truth was smaller than the story you wanted.”

Federal agents arrested him.

At midnight, Natalie presented the physical key to the bank.

The reserve unlocked.

At 12:17 a.m., six hundred and twelve million dollars transferred to Northstar’s creditor account.

The forced auction was canceled.

Employees outside Northstar headquarters cheered when Eleanor announced it.

Victor’s arrest led every news broadcast.

Martin remained in custody.

Lily’s charges were formally dismissed.

The export case against me, however, continued.

As we left the bank, Agent Wilkes approached.

“We searched Victor’s data center,” she said.

“Did you find the original licensing files?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know my signatures were forged.”

“Most were.”

The word stopped me.

“Most?”

She handed Aaron a document.

One export authorization carried my genuine signature.

Dated six years earlier.

I remembered the page.

Grant had brought it to the kitchen during Lily’s birthday dinner. He said it approved a routine European distributor renewal. I signed without reading the attached end-user schedule because guests were waiting.

The schedule had been replaced later.

But my signature was real.

Victor’s final defense would be simple.

Rebecca Mercer signed.

At that moment, every screen in the bank lobby switched to a recorded message.

Victor appeared seated in the data center before his arrest.

“If you are watching this,” he said, “then Rebecca believes she has won.”

He held up the same export authorization.

“She signed the first door open. Grant opened the second. I merely walked through.”

The message ended.

Then the bank alarm sounded.

An executive ran from the secure office.