Chapter 6 - The Media Storm and the Secret AllyBy dawn, the front gates of the Vance estate looked like a war zone. Dozens of reporters, camera crews, and paparazzi swarmed the wrought-iron fence, shouting questions about the dramatic downfall of Vivienne Ashford and the sudden, midnight federal raid on the Sterling Group.
Inside the mansion's sunlit conservatory, Ella sat in a plush velvet armchair, sipping chamomile tea that Margaret had personally brewed for her. She was wearing a soft, cashmere sweater borrowed from Margaret's wardrobe—a stark, beautiful contrast to the worn-out cloth bag she had arrived with just days ago.
"Drink up, child," Margaret urged warmly, sitting across from her. "You have a big day ahead of you. My son does not do things by halves, you know. Once Dominic sets his sights on something—or someone—he moves mountains."
Ella felt a flutter in her stomach. "I still can't believe any of this is real, Mrs. Vance. Yesterday I was scrubbing marble floors. Today... today I feel like I'm living someone else's life."
"It is your life now," a deep, smooth voice announced from the doorway.
Dominic walked into the conservatory, carrying a thick leather-bound folio. He looked unexhausted, despite having spent the entire night tearing apart the Sterling Group's financial empire in his home office. He sat down on the sofa opposite Ella, placing the folio on the glass table between them.
"The federal prosecutors have finished their preliminary interviews with Vivienne," Dominic said, his voice deadpan. "She's facing twenty years for corporate espionage, insider trading, and conspiracy. Her co-conspirators are turning on each other as we speak. The Sterling Group's stock opened down eighty percent this morning."
Ella winced slightly. "Is it... is it really over?"
"For them, yes," Dominic replied, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his dark eyes fixed intensely on her. "For us, it's just beginning. Which brings us to this."
He slid the leather folio across the table toward her. Ella opened it hesitantly. Inside was not a low-level administrative contract, but an executive directorship position for the Vance Global Foundation—complete with a salary that would have paid off her family's hospital debts a hundred times over, plus a seat on the board of directors.
"Dominic... I don't have a college degree in finance," Ella stampered, looking up at him in sheer bewilderment. "I studied literature on a half-scholarship before my grandmother got sick. I don't know how to run a multi-billion-dollar foundation."
"You know right from wrong," Dominic said, his voice dropping an octave, rich with absolute conviction. "And in my world, that is the rarest commodity of all. Everything else can be taught."
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Before Ella could formulate a reply, the heavy mahogany doors of the conservatory swung open violently, and a towering, broad-shouldered man in an expensive gray tweed suit strode into the room, a smirk plastered across his rugged face.
"Well, well, well," a booming voice echoed. "I fly back from London for two days, and I walk straight into a corporate bloodbath and a fairy tale romance. Good morning, little brother."
