Chapter 4 - THE MIDNIGHT RAIDBefore Dominic could lunge for the phone or make a desperate bid to tackle me, the sharp, deafening sound of shattering glass echoed from the hallway outside.
Crash!
The heavy oak door—the very door he had locked with such dramatic finality less than twenty minutes ago—exploded inward. Splintered wood flew across the room as federal marshals and armed security personnel poured into the bridal suite, their tactical boots hitting the floor in a synchronized, thunderous rhythm.
“Federal agents! Nobody move!”
Dominic spun around, his hands flying up defensively as a laser sight painted a bright red dot squarely across the center of his expensive tuxedo jacket. “This is a mistake! My father is Senator Vance! You can’t do this to me! Do you know who I am?”
“We know exactly who you are, Dominic Vance,” a cool, authoritative voice rang out from the hallway.
Step by measured step, a tall man in a bespoke charcoal suit walked into the suite. His silver-streaked hair and sharp, aristocratic features commanded immediate attention. It was Marcus Vance—Dominic’s uncle and the only member of the older generation who had spent the last decade trying to clean up the family’s criminal empire.
Except Marcus wasn't alone. Walking right beside him was my personal corporate attorney, holding a thick leather briefcase stamped with the seal of the Supreme Court.
“Uncle Marcus?” Dominic stammered, his voice trembling violently. “What… what is the meaning of this? Why are you siding with her?”
Marcus didn’t even look at his nephew. Instead, he walked straight past the panicked groom, stopped two feet in front of me, and offered a respectful, deferential nod.
“Good evening, Madam CEO,” Marcus said smoothly, his voice carrying clearly across the silent room. “The emergency board meeting concluded ten minutes ago. By a unanimous vote of ninety-eight percent—backed by your majority voting shares—Dominic Vance has been stripped of all executive titles, corporate privileges, and financial assets effective immediately.”
Dominic staggered backward, his knees buckling until he hit the edge of the plush sofa. “Stripped… No. No! That’s impossible! The shares were tied to the marriage trust! If she divorces me, she loses everything!”
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I walked over to the desk, picked up the legal document he had so proudly displayed earlier, and let it drift lazily onto his lap.
“Read the fine print, darling,” I smiled sweetly. “It wasn’t a marriage contract. It was a pre-signed confession and asset forfeiture agreement, notarized by your own family lawyer while you were too busy celebrating your wedding to read the pages.”
