THE RECORDING EXPOSED HER—THEN THE MANSION WENT DARK…

The grand foyer of the Vance mansion looked entirely different in the stark, unforgiving light of midday. The crystal chandelier still glittered overhead, but the air felt hollow, stripped of its superficial glamour. Federal marshals stood stationed at every doorway, their dark jackets contrasting sharply with the pristine marble floors where Elena Vance had screamed her accusations less than a day before.

Elena stood near the base of the grand staircase, flanked by two federal agents. She had traded her one-shoulder red dress for a simple beige coat, her high-end diamond necklace removed, leaving her neck bare and exposed. Her expression wasn't one of remorse; it was a mask of cold, burning fury as she watched Victor walk down the stairs.

Victor looked older, the lines around his eyes etched deep with exhaustion and betrayal, but his posture was upright and unyielding. He wore a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the tailored black suit jacket draped over his arm.

“You really think this will save you, Victor?” Elena hissed as he stepped off the bottom stair, her voice sharp and brittle. “Once my legal team dismantles your board, you’ll have nothing left. The company will belong to Nan before the week is out.”

Victor stopped three feet away from her. He didn’t raise his voice; his tone was flat, cold, and final.

“Nan was arrested thirty minutes ago at the Seattle airport trying to board a private flight to Zurich,” Victor said, watching the color instantly drain from Elena’s face. “Your offshore accounts have been frozen by federal order. The board has already voted unanimously to strip you of your executive shares.”

Elena staggered back a step, her manicured fingers gripping the wooden banister for support. “You planned this,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You used the girl to set me up.”

“No, Elena,” Victor replied quietly. “You built this trap yourself. I merely stopped running from it.”

Clara stood quietly near the entrance of the West Wing corridor, wearing a simple civilian jacket over her clothes instead of her maid uniform. She held Leo’s small hand as the boy looked up at the scene with wide, uncomprehending eyes. Marcus stood beside them, acting as a quiet anchor against the emotional turbulence of the moment.

Federal agents stepped forward, placing handcuffs around Elena’s wrists with a clean, metallic click. As they led her toward the heavy double doors of the foyer, she didn’t look back at Victor. Instead, her cold, venomous gaze locked onto Clara for one brief, chilling second before she vanished into the sunlight outside.