Chapter 7
The private VIP lounge on the second floor of the grand venue was bathed in warm, amber lamplight, a stark contrast to the sterile brilliance of the ballroom below. Robert Vance sat comfortably in a tufted leather armchair, swirling a glass of aged bourbon as he chuckled quietly at a joke whispered by one of his senior vice presidents. The door swung open without warning, and the jovial atmosphere in the room evaporated instantly. Julian strode into the lounge with an air of absolute authority, followed closely by Clara and Elena.
Robert stood up, a welcoming smile plastered across his weathered face, though it faltered the moment he caught sight of his daughter. The amber lighting could not conceal the dark, swollen bruising framing Elena’s right eye, nor could it hide the rigid, defensive posture she maintained as she crossed the threshold. Robert’s bourbon glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the Persian rug with a dull thud, the amber liquid staining the intricate wool pattern.
“Elena?” Robert breathed, his voice dropping an octave as he rushed forward, his hands hovering uncertainly near her shoulders. “In God's name, what happened to you? Where is Marcus? We’re supposed to do the first dance in ten minutes!”
Elena pulled back slightly, her gaze piercing through her father’s panic with icy clarity. “Marcus is gone, Dad. He ran out like the coward he is,” she said, her voice remarkably steady. She pointed a finger toward her bruised eye, the purple discoloration standing out brutally against her pale skin. “And as for what happened to my face—ask your precious business partner here, or better yet, ask the man you forced me to marry to save your precious shipping contracts. Marcus did this to me last night when I confronted him about the offshore accounts he set up using my personal inheritance.”
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Robert staggered backward as if he had been physically struck, his hand coming up to grip the back of the leather armchair for support. He looked from Elena to Julian, desperation and disbelief warring in his aging eyes. “That’s... that’s impossible,” Robert stammered, shaking his head vehemently. “Marcus presented impeccable credentials. He showed me audit reports, growth projections, stability!”
Julian stepped forward, pulling a thin electronic tablet from his inner jacket pocket and tossing it onto the mahogany coffee table in front of Robert. The screen glowed to life, displaying a cascade of red numbers, unauthorized wire transfers, and shell corporation registries. “He lied to you, Robert,” Julian said coldly. “He lied to you, he lied to the board, and worst of all, he laid hands on your daughter. My association with him ends tonight, and yours should as well, unless you want your entire legacy dismantled by association.”
