Chapter 4 - The Digital ExecutionBy 11:00 PM, the Fairfield Officers Club looked less like a wedding venue and more like a crime scene.
State troopers blocked the entrance. Federal agents carrying encrypted hard drives swarmed the administrative offices of the club, where Grant had hastily set up a laptop to monitor his stock portfolios.
I killed my engine, stepped out of my SUV, and walked back up the grand stone steps of the club. The freezing night wind whipped my hair around my face, but I didn't feel cold. I felt alive.
As I pushed open the double doors, the contrast was staggering. The crystal chandeliers still blazed with light, but the room was empty of guests. The two hundred people who had laughed at me hours earlier had fled through the side exits like rats from a sinking ship, too terrified of association to even say goodbye to the bride.
Only a handful of people remained: Grant, seated at a round table with his hands cuffed behind his back, glaring at the floor; Sloane, sobbing uncontrollably into her mother’s shoulder on the edge of the stage; and Major Vance, who was reviewing a tablet near the bar.
When Vance saw me enter, he snapped the tablet shut and gave a sharp, crisp nod.
"Captain Bennett."
"Major," I replied, walking steadily down the center aisle. My polished boots clicked rhythmically against the floor—the exact same rhythm as when I had walked out.
Grant jerked his head up, his eyes bloodshot and full of venom. "You!" he hissed, struggling against the cuffs. "You little bitch! You set this up! You ruined Sloane's wedding!"
I stopped three feet from him, looking down with calm, unblinking detachment.
"You ruined my father's legacy, Grant," I said quietly. "You stole his patents, you forged my signature, and you spent years treating me like a ghost in my own home. Did you really think there wouldn't be a price to pay?"
Marlene slowly raised her head from Sloane’s shoulder. Her makeup was streaked with tears, her mascara running in black rivers down her cheeks. She looked pathetic—shrunk inside her expensive silver dress, stripped of her social standing in a matter of minutes.
"Claire..." Marlene choked out, her voice cracking. "Please... we're family. We raised you. Think of everything we gave you—"
"You gave me nothing, Marlene," I interrupted, my voice flat and devoid of emotion. "You locked me out of my father's study the day he died. You hid my military academy acceptance letters in the bottom of your desk. And tonight, in front of two hundred people, you thought you could humiliate me one last time for cheap applause."
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I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice so only they could hear.
"The audit covers every asset you own. The house, the cars, the offshore accounts in the Caymans, Caldwell Global Industries—it's all federal property now. By Monday morning, you won't even have enough money to buy a cup of coffee."
