Chapter 6 - The Counter-Strike
The silence in Ethan’s office stretched so long and thin that the faint hum of the air conditioning sounded like an engine roar.
Nolan’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. “She wouldn't dare. She’s bluffing. She knows a simple blood test will blow that out of the water.”
“A blood test takes days, Nolan,” Marcus countered, waving the legal documents. “In the court of public opinion, a weeping, pregnant bride who was publicly humiliated at the altar by an arrogant tech billionaire is a PR nuclear bomb. If she controls the news cycle for forty-eight hours, Vance Global’s board will face unprecedented pressure to settle out of court just to stop the stock from tanking when markets open on Monday.”
Ethan didn't shout. He didn't slam his fist on the desk. Instead, he walked slowly toward his high-backed leather chair and sat down. The vulnerability that had shadowed his face moments earlier completely evaporated, replaced by the terrifying, clinical focus that had made him the most feared young corporate raider on Wall Street.
“Is she pregnant, Ethan?” Marcus asked cautiously.
Ethan met his lawyer’s gaze with absolute certainty. “No.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because six months ago, before we even announced the engagement, I had my personal medical records updated for our life insurance policies,” Ethan said, his voice flat and steady. “I had a vasectomy five years ago, Marcus. Long before I ever met Olivia Sterling. The only two people who know that are me and my personal physician at Presbyterian.”
Marcus’s eyes widened behind his wire-rimmed glasses. A slow, incredulous smile spread across the attorney’s face. “You never told her?”
“I intended to tell her after the wedding, when we discussed freezing embryos,” Ethan said, his tone devoid of warmth. “I wanted to see if she wanted me, or if she was looking for an heir to secure an estate. It turns out my paranoia wasn't a flaw. It was an insurance policy.”
Nolan let out a low whistle, crossing his arms. “So she’s walking into an ambush.”
“She’s walking onto a landmine she buried herself,” Ethan corrected him. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “Marcus, let her hold the press conference. Do not file an injunction to stop it. Do not release a statement tonight. Let her invite every network, every tabloid, and every camera crew in the city.”
“Ethan, that’s risky,” Marcus warned. “The reputational damage in the first twenty-four hours could cost Vance Global five hundred million in market cap.”
“I don't care about the morning stock price,” Ethan said coldly. “Let her tell her lies under oath and on live television. Let her stand before the world and swear she’s carrying my child and that she was an innocent victim of Julian’s schemes. Let her dig the grave so deep she can never crawl out.”
Ethan turned to Nolan. “Where is Chloe Laurent?”
Nolan raised an eyebrow. “Olivia’s maid of honor? She’s still at the cathedral hotel. Security has her restricted to her suite. Why?”
“Because Chloe isn't a mastermind,” Ethan said, his mind moving three steps ahead on the chessboard. “Chloe is a socialite who likes designer bags and VIP tables at Marquee. She was in the bridal suite when Olivia laughed about bleeding me dry. Chloe knows where the bodies are buried, and unlike Olivia, Chloe doesn't have the stomach for a federal prison cell.”
Ethan stood up and grabbed his tuxedo jacket from the couch.
“Where are you going?” Nolan asked.
May you like
“To have a conversation with the maid of honor,” Ethan replied, sliding his arms into the silk-lined sleeves. “Olivia wants to play a high-stakes game of theater? Fine. But I write the final act.”
***
