Chapter 2 - THE TASTE OF REVENGE
The atmosphere on the yacht instantly turned toxic. The same guests who had laughed at Emily seconds ago were now staring at Eleanor with disgust, desperate to distance themselves from a woman marked for destruction.
"Security! Get him off my boat!" Eleanor screamed, pulling herself up from the wet deck, her expensive silk dress stained with red wine and dirt.
Four massive bodyguards in black suits rushed forward, drawing concealed firearms from their jackets. They moved with trained precision, surrounding Victor and Emily.
"You took a wrong turn, pal," the head guard growled, raising his weapon toward Victor’s head.
Victor didn't even flinch. He simply lifted his hand and snapped his fingers twice.
BOOM!
The iron doors of the sleek black yacht parked beside them flew open. A dozen armed operatives clad in unmarked, high-tech tactical gear flooded onto Eleanor’s boat. Within four seconds, Eleanor’s guards were disarmed, forced to their knees, and pinned to the deck with heavy boots on their necks.
The speed and violence of the execution left the elite guests screaming in horror. Women dropped their designer handbags; men dropped to their knees, pleading for mercy.
"Please! We didn't do anything! We don't even know her!" one wealthy real estate mogul cried out.
Victor ignored the cowards. He looked at Emily, his expression softening just a fraction. "Can you walk, little niece?"
Emily was trembling, her mind struggling to process the reality unfolding before her eyes. Niece? This man is my uncle?
"I... I think so," she whispered, her voice raw.
"Good," Victor said. He turned back to Eleanor, who was cowering behind her disarmed guards. "This yacht... what is its value, Eleanor? Twelve million dollars?"
"It... it's worth fifteen million," Eleanor stammered, sweat ruining her heavy makeup. "You can't do this! My son is Julian Whitmore! He controls the city’s trade board! If you touch me, he will destroy you!"
"Julian?" Victor smiled—a cold, terrifying sight. "Ah yes. Your arrogant son who currently owes forty million dollars to offshore creditors. Creditors who, as of three minutes ago, sold all his debt to me."
Victor pulled out a slim silver satellite phone, pressed a button, and held it out on speakerphone.
A panicked voice exploded from the speaker: "Mother! Mother, answer me! Something’s wrong! The bank just froze all our corporate accounts! The police are at the headquarters with a seizure warrant for tax fraud! Mother, what did you do?!"
"Julian..." Eleanor gasped, dropping to her knees again, her face completely drained of color.
"Your empire is already dust, Eleanor," Victor said coldly. "And now, for the disrespect you showed the future head of the Vance family..."
Victor looked at Emily. "Emily, my dear. She struck your face and made you clean the floor. How would you like to settle this?"
Every eye on the deck landed on Emily.
For years, Emily had been trampled on. She had been insulted, pushed, underpaid, and humiliated by people who thought their wealth gave them the right to treat human beings like trash.
She looked at Eleanor—the mighty, cruel socialite now trembling at her feet, covered in dirt and champagne.
Emily took a deep breath, wiped the tear from her bruised cheek, and walked over to Eleanor. She didn't strike her. She didn't yell.
Instead, Emily picked up an untouched bottle of vintage, five-thousand-dollar champagne from a nearby ice bucket. She opened it with a quiet pop.
Slowly, deliberately, Emily poured the golden liquid right over Eleanor’s head, soaking her styled hair and ruined dress.
"Clean it up, Mrs. Whitmore," Emily said, her voice steady and ringing with absolute authority. "Just like you told me to."
The crowd gasped. Eleanor sat frozen, water dripping from her nose, utterly crushed.
"Take her away," Victor ordered his men. "And confiscate this vessel. It belongs to the Vance estate now."
As Victor led Emily toward his sleek black yacht, he leaned down and whispered in her ear: "That was just the appetizer, Emily. The people who destroyed your parents are far bigger than Eleanor Whitmore. Are you ready to take back what is yours?"
May you like
Emily looked back one last time at the ruined party, then turned her face toward the dark ocean.
"Lead the way, Uncle," she said.
