Chapter 2 - THE HOSTAGE OF EMPIREDarian didn’t hesitate. He ignored the multimillion-dollar documents on the counter, ignored Camille’s icy glare, and dropped to his knees, opening his arms to his daughter.
Layla sprinted across the polished floor, burying her face into his shoulder. She was shaking violently. Darian wrapped his arms around her, lifting her into his chest, holding her so tightly he felt her rapid heart beating against his own.
“No, sweetheart,” Darian whispered into her soft hair, his eyes stinging with tears of pure rage and devotion. “Never. It is never your fault. Daddy’s here. I’ve got you.”
Camille watched the display with utter disgust, clicking her tongue softly. “How poetic. A ruined billionaire hugging his tragic baggage. You have until six o'clock tonight to make your decision, Darian. Keep the child and lose everything, or send her away and save your empire. I’ll be staying at the St. Regis until you come to your senses.”
She turned on her high heels, her white trousers swishing with calculated rhythm as she walked out the front door. The slam of the heavy oak doors echoed through the hollow house like a death knell.
“Mr. Darian...” Mrs. Okafor stepped forward, her hands trembling as she looked at the black folder. “Is it true? Can she take everything away from you?”
“Let her try,” Darian gritted out through his teeth, holding Layla closer. “She can take every cent, every share, and this godforsaken marble cage. She will never touch my daughter again.”
Over the next four hours, Darian transformed from a grieving corporate executive into a warrior. He took Layla to his study, setting up a small drawing desk for her right next to his grand mahogany work station. He gave her a brand-new set of watercolors—bright pinks, greens, and blues—and told her to paint as loudly and messily as she wanted.
For the first time in months, Layla smiled a genuine, fragile smile.
Meanwhile, Darian called his chief legal counsel, Marcus Vance—who was also his late wife’s brother.
“Marcus, I need you at the house. Now,” Darian said without greeting. “Camille just threatened to liquidate Vance Global’s holding assets if I don’t marry her.”
Silence dead-panned on the other end of the line, followed by the sound of paper shuffling. “What did you say?” Marcus asked, his tone shifting instantly into sharp legal fury. “Darian, what happened?”
“She abused Layla. She’s been psychologically abusing my daughter for months,” Darian said, his voice cracking with emotion. “And she just told me to ship Layla to a Swiss boarding school or she’ll bankrupt the company. Marcus, I need an exit strategy.”
“I’m on my way,” Marcus replied instantly. “And Darian? Don't touch any of those documents. I’m bringing our forensic accountant.”
An hour later, Marcus arrived, his suit rumpled and his face drawn. He hugged his niece tightly, placing a kiss on Layla’s forehead before diving straight into the financial files on the kitchen island.
As Marcus flipped through the heavily clause-laden contract, his eyes narrowed. “Darian... who drafted this holding agreement?”
“Camille’s family attorney, Dupont & Co.,” Darian replied, pacing the room.
Marcus pulled out a highlighter and marked three distinct lines on the fifth page. “Look at this. Camille’s father didn’t just invest capital. They tied the IP rights of your central patent to a moral clause connected to the marriage contract.”
Darian paused. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Marcus said, looking up with a grave expression, “if the engagement is broken by you without legal cause, the patent automatically transfers to the Dupont Trust. But... if the engagement is broken due to criminal breach or cruelty, the clause is nullified, and you regain total control.”
Darian’s eyes locked onto Marcus. “Cruelty?”
“Psychological abuse of a minor dependent constitutes legal breach under state family law,” Marcus said slowly. “If we can prove what she did to Layla, not only do we save your company... we can put Camille in prison.”
Suddenly, the front door burst open.
Standing in the foyer was not Camille, but two uniformed police officers accompanied by a woman in a sharp grey suit holding a clipboard.
“Darian Vance?” the lead officer called out, stepping into the hallway.
Darian stepped out of the kitchen, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Yes? What is the meaning of this?”
The woman in the grey suit stepped forward, showing her ID. “Mr. Vance, I’m Sarah Jenkins from Child Protective Services. We received an emergency anonymous report stating that your daughter, Layla Vance, is living in an unsafe environment with an emotionally unstable parent suffering from acute grief psychosis.”
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Darian froze. “What? That’s absurd!”
“The report includes medical statements,” the CPS officer continued calmly, looking down at her clip board. “And a signed affidavit from your fiancée, Camille Dupont, stating that you locked your daughter in a basement storage room overnight.”
