Chapter 2 - The Red Frame
The television screen illuminated the dark luxury suite with a stark, uncompromising white glow. On the display, high above the furniture, the camera’s wide-angle lens captured every single detail with clinical brutality.
There was no sound on the raw feed, but the visuals spoke with a deafening roar.
Everyone in the room watched as the virtual Khloe on screen stepped away from Isabella, hands raised in a defensive, non-threatening gesture. They watched as Isabella lunged forward, her face twisted in an ugly, unmasked snarl of pure malice. They watched the precise moment the stiletto heel struck Khloe’s side, sending her crashing into the marble table and shattering the crystal champagne glass.
Isabella stood frozen near the door, her eyes fixed on the screen as her own crimes played out in agonizing slow motion. The fake tears on her cheeks suddenly looked grotesque—stains of desperation on a canvas of undeniable guilt.
"Turn it off," Isabella choked out, her voice losing all its melodic poise. "That’s... that’s edited. It has to be manipulated. Marcus, you know me! We’ve worked together, we’ve—"
"We've what, Isabella?" Marcus interrupted, his voice cutting through her panic like a scalpel. He finally turned to face her, his eyes entirely devoid of the warmth or diplomacy that society usually afforded the daughter of a prominent banking family. "Did you think because my marriage was strained behind closed doors, I would look the other way while you assaulted my pregnant wife? Did you think you could step into my life, play the victim, and walk out untouched?"
Julian Vance stood up slowly from beside Khloe, who was now being carefully lifted onto a rolling gurney by two emergency medical technicians who had finally slipped past the doorway. Julian walked toward Isabella with the slow, terrifying grace of a predator closing in on wounded prey.
"You didn't just attack a woman," Julian said softly, stopping mere inches from Isabella’s face. "You attacked a Vance. And more dangerously for you, you attacked an heir to the Thorne empire while the entire hospital network is wired to my private security grid."
"I want her out of my sight," Marcus commanded the two security guards who had materialized in the hallway behind Julian. "Take her down to the basement holding rooms. Confiscate her phone, her purse, her jewelry—anything that can transmit data. Make sure she doesn't speak to a single lawyer until my legal team arrives at dawn."
"You can't do this!" Isabella shrieked as strong hands clamped onto her shoulders, hauling her backward away from the television screen. Her red gown dragged across the shattered glass, tearing the silk hem. "My father will ruin you, Marcus! He’ll pull every investment from your shipping lanes! You’ll regret this before the week is over!"
"Your father's corporation is currently leveraged seventy percent against my primary holdings," Marcus replied coldly, turning his back on her as she was dragged out into the corridor. "If he so much as sends me a text message today, I’ll foreclose on his primary estate by lunchtime."
The heavy oak door slammed shut, cutting off Isabella’s frantic screams.
Silence descended on the suite once more, broken only by the steady beep of the heart monitor attached to Khloe’s gurney.
Marcus turned back toward his wife. Khloe looked up at him from the white sheets, her eyes exhausted, damp with tears, but carrying an unyielding strength that stunned him.
"Don't think this changes anything between us, Marcus," Khloe whispered as the medics began wheeling her toward the elevator. "You let her get this close. You invited her into our orbit."
Marcus didn't answer. He watched the elevator doors close, sealing her away. Then, he turned to Julian Vance.
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"She's safe at St. Jude's Private," Marcus said quietly.
"Safe from Isabella, maybe," Julian replied, adjusting his cuffs with dangerous calm. "But she isn't safe from the wolves you've invited into your corporate bed, Thorne. And if you think Isabella acted alone tonight, you're a bigger fool than I thought."
