Chapter 3 - The Court of Public Opinion
Z
Damian’s eyebrows knitted together in brief confusion at my sudden change in tone, but his arrogance quickly reclaimed his expression. He scoffed, leaning back against the edge of the vanity, utterly oblivious to the invisible trap snapping shut around his neck.
“Eighty million,” Damian bragged, tilting his head back with a cruel, boastful laugh. “Eighty million dollars right out of the employee pension fund and the offshore tech reserves. And Evans didn’t cost much—just five million and a guaranteed seat on the board of the new holding company once we liquidate your assets. Is that what you wanted to hear, Victoria? Does knowing the exact price of your downfall give you closure?”
Beside him, Serena clapped her hands in delight, the sound sharp and jarring. “Oh, don't forget the fun part, Damian! Tell her about her father!”
My blood turned to pure ice. Every muscle in my body froze. “What about my father?” I demanded, stepping forward, forgetting the posture of weakness.
Serena stepped into my space, her toxic perfume suffocating the air between us. She leaned in, her eyes glinting with pure, unadulterated venom. “You really thought Richard had a massive heart attack out of nowhere? Your father was fine, Victoria. But he was getting suspicious of Damian’s book-keeping. So, a little extra dosage in his nightly digitalis medication… and voila! An unfortunate, tragic cardiac event. And the best part? You were the one who handed him his pills every night. If you fight us on this, we don't just put you in an asylum—we frame you for his murder.”
Downstairs, I could almost hear the collective, horrified gasp of two hundred people echoing through the floorboards. Serena had just confessed to first-degree murder and conspiracy on a live video feed broadcasted to the District Attorney sitting in the grand ballroom.
I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second, absorbing the crushing weight of her words. My father hadn't died of natural causes. They had murdered him. They had murdered the only man who had ever truly loved me, and they had used my own hands to do it. A rage so white-hot and ancient flared inside my soul that it threatened to burn away every shred of my restraint. But I couldn't break yet. Not until the trap was fully sprung.
“You… you poisoned him,” I breathed, forcing tears to stream down my cheeks—tears of genuine, suffocating grief, but also the ultimate performance for the audience watching below.
“We did what was necessary to secure the empire,” Damian said coldly, grabbing my forearm and shoving the pen into my palm once more. “Now stop sniveling and sign the papers! We’ve wasted enough time. The guests downstairs are waiting for us to make our appearance. I have a speech to give about our bright future together before I announce your sudden 'nervous breakdown.'”
I looked down at the pen in my hand. Then I looked at the legal papers.
“No,” I said softly.
Damian’s jaw clenched, his knuckles turning white. “What did you say?”
“I said, no,” I repeated, stepping back and ripping my arm from his grasp. The weakness in my posture vanished instantly. I stood up straight, holding my swollen belly, my chin raised high, staring down at them with absolute contempt. “I’m not signing a single thing.”
Serena’s face twisted into an ugly, violent scowl. “You arrogant little bitch! Damian, call Evans up here now! Get the security guards to hold her down!”
Damian reached into his pocket, pulling out his smartphone to dial. “You had your chance, Victoria. You could have made this easy. Now, you’ll spend the rest of your life drooling in a padded cell while your children grow up calling Serena 'mom.'”
Before he could hit the call button, the heavy oak door of the master suite didn't just open—it was violently kicked off its hinges with a deafening CRACK!
The door splintered inward, slamming against the wall. Damian jumped back, dropping his phone, while Serena shrieked in terror, ducking behind him.
Framed in the doorway stood Marcus, my Head of Security, his tall, muscular frame clad in tactical gear, a drawn firearm trained directly on Damian’s chest. Behind Marcus stood four uniformed LAPD officers, accompanied by District Attorney Robert Vance—a close friend of my late father, who looked ready to tear Damian apart with his bare hands.
“Hands where I can see them! Both of you! Down on the ground now!” Marcus bellowed, his voice echoing like thunder through the master suite.
Damian’s face drained of all color. He looked from Marcus to the armed police officers, his confidence evaporating in an instant. “What… what is the meaning of this? This is private property! Officers, my fiancée is having a severe psychotic break, she—”
“Shut your mouth, Thorne!” District Attorney Vance stepped into the room, holding up his own tablet, which was still playing the crystal-clear, high-definition live stream of Damian and Serena’s explicit confession. “We heard every word. The entire room downstairs heard every word. Your confession to embezzlement, extortion, and the murder of Richard Vanguard.”
Damian’s eyes bulged in utter horror. He slowly turned his head to look at me, his gaze dropping to the diamond necklace glittering against my collarbone.
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I reached up, unlatched the platinum clasp, and held the brilliant centerpiece between two fingers. The microscopic red lens glinted mockingly in the bright light of the chandelier.
“It’s a 4K broadcast, Damian,” I whispered, giving him a cold, beautiful smile. “And you were the star of the show.”
