Chapter 3: The House of Cards
The ballroom doors burst open. It wasn't the caterers returning with the main course; it was a tactical unit of federal agents, their badges gleaming under the crystal chandeliers.
The scream that escaped Beatrice Thorne was shrill, shattering the elegant atmosphere. "This is a mistake! My son is a philanthropist!"
"Your son is a traitor, Mrs. Thorne," the lead agent said, stepping over the discarded lace of the bridal train.
Julian’s face turned an ashen, translucent grey. He looked at Elena—his wife, his partner, his PR pawn—and realized he didn't know her at all. He had never seen the steel in her spine, the precision in her gaze, or the cold calculation of a woman who had been watching him commit crimes from the comfort of their shared bed.
"You played me," Julian whispered, his legs giving out as the agents surrounded him.
May you like
"You played yourself, Julian," Elena corrected, standing tall. "I just provided the stage."
He watched, destroyed, as the agents clamped stainless steel handcuffs over the silk of his tuxedo. The cameras were flashing—not the press he had invited to capture his "fairytale," but the cameras of the news crews he had tried to bribe for months. They were getting the footage of a lifetime.
