Chapter 3 - Dragged Out in SilkThe silence that followed Nolan’s pronouncement was heavier than lead.
Every face in the grand ballroom—from the wealthy philanthropists who had donated millions to Grant’s developments, to the society reporters typing frantically on their smartphones—was locked onto the stage. The glossy, untouchable façade of Grant Mercer had just shattered into a million jagged pieces, right in front of the entire city elite.
Grant stood frozen on the lower step, his chest heaving, his dark hair falling out of place across his forehead. He looked down at his empty hands, then up at Nolan, realization finally dawning through his drunken fog.
“Frozen?” Grant whispered, his voice cracking. “All of it? The operating lines?”
“Every single account, personal and corporate, tied to the Whitestone portfolio,” Nolan replied smoothly, sliding the injunction papers back into his leather portfolio. “Your credit cards are declining as we speak. Even the black SUV idling outside in the VIP lane has been impounded by the leasing company under emergency asset seizure.”
Panic, raw and ugly, twisted Grant’s features. He turned desperately toward the crowd, raising a shaking hand.
“Listen to me—this is a hostile maneuver! A disgruntled attorney acting on behalf of an emotional, unstable woman! My wife is—she’s just dramatic! She’s postpartum!”
“She’s four minutes away from delivering your child while you ignored her ninth phone call to play prince charming with your PR director,” Nolan snapped back, stepping closer. “Save your breath for the federal grand jury investigating your offshore zoning accounts. We audited those last week, too.”
Grant swayed slightly, the alcohol hitting him all at once. He looked around the room, expecting someone—anyone—to step forward and defend him, to offer a sympathetic nod, to remind everyone of his power.
Instead, the wealthy donors and board members were backing away from him as if he were radioactive. Tables shifted. People lowered their eyes. Even the mayor, sitting at table two, deliberately turned his back to whisper to his chief of staff.
Ava Carlisle realized, with a sickening drop in her stomach, that the game was over.
The glittering future she had spent two years scheming for—the penthouse apartment, the corporate titles, the society galas, the ring on her finger—had evaporated into thin air before she could even touch it.
She turned on her heel, hitching up the long silk skirt of her champagne gown, and bolted for the service exit near the kitchens.
She didn't make it five steps.
Marcus Vance moved with terrifying speed. The former naval investigator intercepted her near the ice sculpture, his large hand clamping down firmly on her bare shoulder with the grip of a hydraulic press.
“Let me go!” Ava shrieked, her voice pitching up in hysteria as she tried to wrench away. “Get your hands off me, you brute! Do you know who I am?”
“I know exactly who you are, Ms. Carlisle,” Marcus said, his voice completely devoid of emotion. “You’re an employee terminated for gross misconduct and conflict of interest. And more importantly, you’re currently wearing stolen property.”
With a swift, practiced twist, Marcus reached up and snapped the diamond earrings off her lobes.
Ava let out a piercing scream of rage and humiliation as the metal tore slightly against her skin, drawing a tiny drop of blood that stained her neck.
“My earrings!” she wailed, stumbling backward into a waiter carrying a tray of empty champagne flutes. The glasses crashed to the floor in a deafening cascade of shattering crystal.
“Marcus!” Nolan called out across the room. “Escort the lady out. The police are waiting at the service entrance to take her statement regarding corporate embezzlement from the Whitestone marketing budget.”
“Gladly,” Marcus muttered.
Without hesitation, Marcus grabbed Ava by the upper arm—ignoring her frantic kicking, her desperate curses, and the way her expensive silk dress snagged and ripped against the brass doorframe—and dragged her backward across the polished marble floor of the ballroom.
Three hundred pairs of eyes watched in stunned, unblinking silence as the woman who had pretended to be the queen of Chicago was hauled out like a common thief, her champagne gown trailing dust and broken glass behind her.
May you like
The heavy service doors slammed shut behind them, cutting off her muffled screams.
On the stage, Grant Mercer crumpled. He sank to his knees on the carpeted steps, burying his face in his hands as the flashbulbs continued to pop around him like a relentless thunderstorm.
