Chapter 3 - THE QUEEN’S REVENGEThe transition of power happened not in a boardroom, but in the blinding glare of emergency press cameras outside Saint Jude Cathedral.
Marcus Cole was dragged away in handcuffs, screaming curses and threats that were drowned out by the roar of reporters shouting questions. Within hours, the internet had melted down. #TheTrueVanceHeiress and #TheVanceBetrayal trended globally at number one, eclipsing the royal wedding that was supposed to happen that afternoon.
Inside the private VIP lounge of the cathedral complex, Lyra Vance sat in a plush leather armchair. She had changed into a tailored charcoal-gray suit that accentuated her sharp, commanding presence.
Lady Eleanor sat across from her, wrapped in a cashmere blanket, staring at Lyra as if she were seeing a miracle.
“You have his eyes,” Eleanor murmured, tears spilling down her heavily lined cheeks. “For thirty years, I believed my son was dead. I let that monster Marcus manipulate me, isolate me, and take over the board... because I had nothing left to fight for.”
“You have me now, Grandma,” Lyra said, pouring a cup of hot chamomile tea and handing it to the matriarch. “And we are going to tear down everything Marcus built. Starting with the emergency board meeting tonight.”
The door swung open, and Victor Vance—Eleanor’s greedy nephew who had conspired with Marcus behind the scenes—stormed into the room, his face red with fury.
“What the hell is going on here?!” Victor yelled, slamming his fists onto the glass coffee table. “Some random nobody walks in off the street, claims she’s Jonathan’s kid, and you’re just going to hand over the keys to the kingdom? Have you lost your mind, Eleanor? The board will never accept her! We’ll vote her out in five minutes!”
Lyra didn’t even flinch. She slowly took a sip of her tea, set the cup down with a soft clink, and raised her gaze to meet Victor’s angry glare.
“Try it, Victor,” Lyra said softly, a dangerous edge to her voice.
Victor sneered. “You think you scare me? You’re a nobody raised in some dusty provincial town. You don’t even know how to read a balance sheet!”
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Lyra stood up, walking slowly toward him until she was standing just inches away. She pulled a flash drive from her pocket and tossed it casually onto his chest.
“That drive contains the offshore account numbers where you and Marcus have been siphoned fifty million dollars over the past three years,” Lyra whispered, her eyes locked onto his. “Try to vote me out tonight, Victor... and I won’t just strip your shares. I’ll make sure your cellmate wears the same designer suit you’re wearing right now.”
