Chapter 2 - The Arrival at the Grand Meridian
The stretch limousine idled smoothly against the curb of the Grand Meridian Hotel, its tinted windows offering complete anonymity from the flashbulbs of the paparazzi swarming the red carpet.
Inside, I sat in absolute stillness while my stylist, Marcus—flown in specially from Milan—put the finishing touches on my appearance. Gone was the exhausted housewife in the faded apron. In her place was a woman forged from iron and capital.
The dress was a custom creation by haute couture house Balmain, structural yet fluid, woven from midnight-blue silk that shimmered with micro-embedded jet crystals like a starless night sky. Around my neck rested the centerpiece: the Aethelgard Heart, a rare 45-carat fancy-blue diamond necklace on permanent loan from a private Swiss vault—an artifact so exclusive its existence was known to only a handful of billionaires worldwide.
“Perfection, Madam Chairwoman,” Marcus whispered, stepping back with a breathless smile. “They won't know what hit them.”
“They never do, Marcus,” I replied, my voice cool and devoid of emotion.
Outside, the announcer’s voice boomed through the outdoor speakers, hyping the crowd as luxury vehicles deposited the city's elite.
“And now, welcoming CEO of Prescott Industries, Mr. Weston Prescott, accompanied by Miss Vanessa Sterling!”
Through the tinted glass, I watched Weston step out of his black town car, offering his arm to Vanessa, who wore a plunging crimson gown that glittered aggressively under the camera lights. Weston looked every bit the master of the universe—chest puffed out, a confident, predatory smile plastered across his face, basking in the strobe lights of the press corps. He looked like a man who believed he had already won the war.
He had no idea the battle hadn't even started.
“Are we ready?” I asked, my hand resting on the sleek door handle.
“Whenever you are, Elowen,” my head of security, David, murmured from the front passenger seat, checking the encrypted earpiece in his ear. “The private VIP elevator is cleared. The board members are waiting in the holding suite adjacent to the grand ballroom.”
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I checked my reflection in the vanity mirror one last time. The woman staring back at me showed no trace of the hurt, discarded wife who had swept up broken crystal an hour ago. Veritas Capital—the shadow fund that controlled over forty percent of the country’s tech and infrastructure equity—did not deal in mercy. And neither did its founder.
I pushed the door open. The cool October air hit my face, and as my heel touched the red carpet, the flashbulbs began to detonate like a localized thunderstorm.
