Chapter 3: The Price of Forgetting

Chapter 3: The Price of Forgetting

The name glowed on his monitor, a digital beacon in the quiet of his home office: Martín Sterling. It was one thing to discover the identity of his antagonist; it was another to use that information. Raw intelligence, as his old instructors used to say, is useless without a vector for action.

The official channels, the very ones designed to stonewall him, would now be his weapon.

The next day, Alex walked back into the same police station, the smell of institutional cleaner and lukewarm coffee a familiar greeting. He found the same desk sergeant, her expression a mixture of mild surprise and weary resignation.

“Mr. Thorne. Any news?”

“I have an update for my report,” Alex said, his tone as neutral as if he were discussing a change in weather. “I’ve identified the individual who was driving the vehicle that blocked my car.”

The sergeant’s eyebrows raised slightly. “Oh? How’s that?”

Alex had rehearsed the lie. It had to be simple, plausible, and devoid of any detail that could be disproven. “It’s a small city. My wife and I saw him and his friends again, inside the museum. His car, a custom blue BMW M8, is quite distinctive. A little asking around with a few friends in the auto business gave me a name: Martín Sterling.”

It was clean. It positioned him as a resourceful citizen, not a former intelligence analyst with access to restricted corporate databases. The sergeant typed the name into the report. “Martín Sterling… son of Alistair Sterling?” A flicker of something—recognition, perhaps apprehension—crossed her face.

“That’s what I’m told,” Alex confirmed without inflection.

“Well, that certainly makes things… interesting,” she said, her professional mask back in place. “With a named suspect, the request for the security footage gets a higher priority. We’ll be in touch.”

Alex thanked her and left. He had just lit a fuse and placed it at the base of the Sterling fortress. Now, all he had to do was wait for the sound.

It took six days. Six days of quiet, suburban life. He drove the kids to school in the damaged Volvo, the long, silver scar a constant, silent reminder of his purpose. He worked on his risk assessment projects, his mind a perfect duality of calm professionalism on the surface and cold calculation beneath.

The call came on a Tuesday afternoon. The caller ID was blocked.

“Am I speaking with Mr. Alexios Thorne?” The voice was smooth, cultured, and carried an easy authority. It was the sound of expensive suits and corner offices.

“You are.”

“My name is Julian Vance. I’m an attorney with Vance, Abernathy & Crowe. I represent the interests of the Sterling family.”

Alex said nothing, letting the silence hang. He knew this call was not a coincidence. The police had made their request. Metro Park Holdings had seen the name on the official paperwork and kicked it up the chain of command. The machine had been alerted.

“Mr. Thorne,” Vance continued, his tone shifting to one of magnanimous condescension, “I’m calling about an unfortunate incident that occurred last week in a Metro Park garage. It has come to our attention that a complaint has been filed naming our client’s son, Martín.”

“Yes. He keyed my car.” Alex’s statement was flat, a simple declaration of fact.

“Ah, well, let’s not jump to conclusions,” Vance purred. “Boys will be boys. A moment of youthful indiscretion, perhaps a misunderstanding escalated. Regardless, Mr. Alistair Sterling is a man who believes in resolving such trivial matters quickly and amicably. He has authorized me to make you a generous offer to put this entire unpleasantness behind us.”

Alex felt a cold stillness settle over him. Trivial matters. Unpleasantness. The language was designed to diminish him, to frame his legitimate grievance as a petty annoyance.

“I’m listening,” Alex said.

“Excellent. To cover the full cost of repairs to your vehicle, and as a gesture of goodwill for your trouble, we are prepared to offer you a settlement of ten thousand dollars. The funds can be wired to your account by the end of the day. All we require is your signature on a standard non-disclosure agreement and, of course, the immediate withdrawal of your police complaint.”

Ten thousand dollars. It was more than enough to repaint the entire car, perhaps even serve as a down payment on a newer model. It was a tempting sum, a logical solution. It was the price they put on forgetting. They believed he was just like everyone else, that his principles, his dignity, had a price tag. And they had just shown him exactly how low they thought it was.

Alex looked out his office window at the Volvo in the driveway. He pictured Lily’s wide eyes in the back seat when the BMW had roared up to them. He recalled Leo’s quiet question: “Daddy, what happened to the car?”

This wasn’t about a scratch in the paint anymore. This was about the arrogant smirk on a boy’s face who believed he owned the world, and the powerful father who ensured that his son’s reality never contradicted that belief. This was about the casual cruelty of the powerful and their assumption that everything and everyone could be bought.

“No,” Alex said. The word was quiet, but absolute.

A beat of surprised silence on the other end of the line. Julian Vance was clearly not accustomed to hearing it. “I… I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“You heard me perfectly, Mr. Vance. The offer is rejected.”

“Mr. Thorne, perhaps you misunderstand,” the lawyer said, his smooth voice gaining a sharper edge. “This is a more than generous offer. It would be… unwise… to pursue this matter any further. Taking this to court would be a lengthy, expensive, and ultimately fruitless endeavor for you.”

It was a threat, veiled in professional courtesy.

“My son asked me why someone would do that to our car,” Alex said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, yet carrying an unnerving intensity. “He’s five years old. He doesn’t understand that some people believe they can damage what belongs to others without consequence. I intend to provide him with a practical lesson to the contrary.”

He continued, “Your client’s ‘youthful indiscretion’ has a price, but it isn’t one you can pay with a wire transfer. Tell Mr. Sterling his money is not required.”

Before the stunned lawyer could formulate a response, Alex ended the call.

He leaned back in his chair, the silence of the room profound. The legal claim was no longer the point. The ten thousand dollars was irrelevant. His cold, unequivocal refusal had just changed the rules of engagement. He had rejected their world, their values, their currency.

This was no longer a simple legal claim. It was a personal crusade. He had been offered a chance to walk away, richer and quieter. By refusing, he had declared war. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that the Sterling empire would now answer that declaration in the only way it knew how: with overwhelming, crushing force.

He welcomed it.