Chapter 2 - YOU THOUGHT I WAS A HELPLESS WIFE? MEET MY REAL BOSS!
Patricia Whitaker looked as if she were about to faint, but her sheer arrogance kept her upright. She staggered forward, pointing a trembling, diamond-encrusted finger at me.
“This is a trick! A sick, twisted game!” she screamed, her voice echoing off the crystal chandeliers. “Alan! General Mercer! You’ve known my family for a decade! My late husband was a decorated Colonel! My son is a rising star! You cannot honestly believe this trash! Look at her gown—she couldn't afford that on a secretary's salary! She stole it!”
I glanced down at my midnight-black silk gown, smiling faintly.
“Actually, Patricia, this gown was custom-tailored for me in Milan while I was finalizing an international human-trafficking bust last month,” I said, my voice dripping with cold calm. “And as for my salary? I don't live off a military stipend. My family happens to own Vance Logistics—the primary defense contractor for the entire Eastern Seaboard. I chose this uniform. I earned this rank. Unlike your son, who bought his way through his promotions using your family’s dwindling inheritance.”
Ryan looked as if he had been struck by lightning. Three years of marriage. Three years of him treating me like an inconvenient accessory. Three years of him leaving me alone in empty military housing while he went out to "command dinners," claiming I wasn't sophisticated enough to mingle with high society.
“You... Vance Logistics?” Ryan’s voice was barely a squeak. “The billionaires? You’re... you’re the Vance heiress?”
“I am,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “But more importantly, Ryan, I am your commanding officer’s worst nightmare.”
General Mercer’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Ryan, the warmth completely vanishing from his expression. “Colonel Vance, you mentioned an active operation. Is Captain Whitaker the target of an official Pentagon investigation?”
“He is the primary target, General,” I announced, ensuring every single officer, politician, and socialite in the room could hear me.
I reached into my black clutch once more. This time, I didn’t pull out a credential. I pulled out a secure, encrypted flash drive, its red LED light blinking slowly.
“For the past eighteen months, Captain Ryan Whitaker has been using his position in logistics management to skim military-grade equipment, tactical gear, and classified communications hardware from the Fort Belvoir depot,” I stated clearly. “He didn't do it alone. He used a network of shell companies registered under his mother’s maiden name—Patricia Collins.”
Patricia’s face turned from pale to an ugly, mottled purple. She choked on her own breath, stumbling backward against table twelve, knocking over a tower of champagne glasses. The crystal shattered loudly, spilling alcohol over the hem of her expensive dress.
“That’s a lie! It’s a frame-up!” Ryan shouted, panic finally making him lose his composure completely. He lunged toward me, his hands reaching out as if to grab the flash drive. “Give me that! You’re insane! You’re trying to ruin me because of the miscarriages! You’re unhinged!”
Before his fingers could even come close to me, the senior MP sergeant stepped between us like a brick wall, his hand resting firmly on the butt of his service weapon.
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“Step back, Captain!” the sergeant barked. “Do not approach the Colonel!”
“Let him speak, Sergeant,” I said, my voice echoing with absolute authority. “Let him dig his grave a little deeper. He’s had an audience for three years. Let’s see how he performs when the stakes are real.”
