Chapter 3 - The Inheritance of IronMarin did not wait for the elevator. She pushed open the heavy glass stairwell door and descended into the cool, concrete quiet of the museum’s underground parking garage.
The air smelled of exhaust fumes and damp earth—a welcome contrast to the expensive suffocating stench of truffle oil and cheap champagne upstairs.
Her driver, Miller, was leaning against the door of the black Mercedes S-class, holding a long woolen coat over his arm. When he saw her coming down the concrete ramp alone, his posture shifted instantly from relaxed to alert. He didn't ask questions. He opened the rear door before she even reached the vehicle.
“Home, Miller,” Marin said softly as she slid into the leather interior, adjusting the emerald ring on her finger.
“Yes, Mrs. Cross,” Miller replied, his eyes meeting hers briefly in the rearview mirror. He corrected himself without missing a beat: “Miss Whitlock. My apologies.”
Marin closed her eyes for a single heartbeat. Miss Whitlock.
Her grandfather had legally insisted that her maiden name remain attached to every major trust, every asset portfolio, and every property deed she brought into her marriage. Dominic had spent ten years trying to convince her to merge everything under a unified corporate banner—Cross Industries, Cross Global, Cross Enterprises. He had wanted his name stamped on everything, from the foundation stones to the letterhead.
She had always refused. Not out of lack of love, but out of instinct. Evelyn Whitlock had left her more than money; she had left her a radar for parasites.
Back upstairs, the gala had dissolved into a full-scale riot of gossip.
Julian Vance had taken his phone out, dialled his senior partners, and calmly pulled Vanguard Capital’s pending five-million-dollar bridge loan off the table before he even finished his glass of sparkling water. The city council members, realizing that Aurelis Grid’s matching government grants were tied directly to the vanished thirty million in collateral, were already calling their legal aides from the corners of the atrium.
And Dominic?
Dominic Cross was standing at the entrance of the parking garage stairwell, breathless, his Tom Ford jacket askew, staring at the taillights of the Mercedes as they disappeared into the wet city night.
He was still wearing his wireless microphone. The live stream audio was still broadcasting live to two thousand viewers online.
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“Marin!” his voice echoed down the concrete ramp, frantic and pathetic, picked up by the sensitive lapel mic. “You can’t do this! You’ll destroy everything we built! You’re my wife!”
The Mercedes didn't slow down. It rounded the corner of the subterranean garage, accelerating smoothly up the ramp toward the street, leaving him alone in the exhaust fumes with a dead company and a secretary wearing stolen emeralds.
