Chapter 3 - THE COLLAPSE OF THE QUEENChaos erupted in the dining hall.
Board members bolted from their seats, shouting over one another as flashbulbs from invisible cameras seemed to ignite in their minds. Marcus turned a sickly shade of green, clutching the edge of the table as if he were about to collapse.
“This is an outrage!” Daria shrieked, her voice losing its aristocratic composure, reverting to the shrill, desperate shriek of a cornered animal. She pointed a trembling finger at Commander Vance. “Do you know who I am? I run this city! You have no warrant! You have nothing!”
Commander Vance calmly pulled a thick manila folder from his tactical vest, flipping open the reinforced cover to reveal a stack of signed federal documents.
“Warrant signed twenty minutes ago by Judge Abernathy,” Vance stated coldly. He then pulled out a secondary set of documents—financial wire transfers, overseas bank statements, and a sworn medical affidavit. “We also have the signed confession of Dr. Weston, who admitted to falsifying dental records for a burned corpse using dental molds provided directly from your private medical vault, Mrs. Kincaid.”
Daria staggered backward, her hip striking the edge of the mahogany table. Her breath hitched. For a woman who had spent decades orchestrating the lives and deaths of everyone around her, the sudden realization that the walls were caving in was intoxicating to watch.
She slowly turned her head, her eyes locking onto mine with a mixture of disbelief and absolute, venomous hatred.
“You,” she whispered, the word escaping her lips like a hiss of escaping steam. “You set this up. You traitorous little bastard.”
I slowly stood up, buttoning my suit jacket, and looked down at the woman who had birthed me, raised me, and ultimately tried to destroy everything I loved.
“You taught me well, Mother,” I replied softly, stepping away from the table. “You taught me that empire comes before family. You taught me that power requires patience. But you made one fatal mistake.”
“What mistake?” she spat, her chest heaving as two federal agents stepped forward, pulling out steel handcuffs.
“You underestimated how much I loved my wife,” I said, stepping closer so only she could hear. “And you forgot that a dead woman can always come back to reclaim her throne.”
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“Daria Kincaid, put your hands behind your back,” Commander Vance commanded, stepping between us.
The heavy steel cuffs snapped shut around her wrists with a sharp, metallic click. As they dragged her away toward the grand exit, Daria didn’t scream anymore. She stared at me with dead, hollow eyes—eyes that understood she had lost everything, down to her last chess piece.
